


Something To Talk About

by thewildflowerchild



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Accidents, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Brothers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Feels, Gen, HIV/AIDS, Hospitalization, Hurt Roger Taylor (Queen), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 45,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22370959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewildflowerchild/pseuds/thewildflowerchild
Summary: “What else?” Freddie could feel the tension leaving his shoulders. These were the first, tentative steps towards reconciliation. It was going to be a long road to gain their trust completely, and it seemed like something major had happened to their drummer that Freddie both loathed and desperately wanted to learn.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor
Comments: 285
Kudos: 262





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Everyone belongs to their proper owners. I own nothing!
> 
> My first work in this fandom. Just throwing around an idea. Most likely will stay a one-shot, might not. Please review!

“Where are they?”  
The clock on Jim’s desk read half past. The anxiety that had settled in Freddie’s gut the moment he made the call about the meeting increased with each moment the band didn’t show. Jim and he didn’t speak – there was no need. Freddie busied himself with picking at the seat fabric, hands fluttering with nerves.

  
“They’re late.” Jim said, quietly and slightly amused.

  
Freddie had to smile at that. After years of getting it for being late to meetings, rehearsals, and anything else, the boys were finally dishing out a bit of his own medicine.

Movement outside the door snapped him back to the present and suddenly Brian May was in the room. Freddie nervously gripped the arms of his seat, almost like he was about to stand. The lanky guitarist paused at the doorway.

“Jim.”

  
“Hi, boys.”

  
Behind Brian was Roger, looking less than thrilled. Freddie couldn’t read his face behind the sunglasses, but something was different about the drummer that he just couldn’t pin down, a bit more tentative, unsure of himself in a way which was a far cry from the confident, arrogant blonde from a year ago. John entered last, and immediately placed himself on the couch by Brian after closing the office door behind him.

  
“If anybody wants any tea, coffee, bladed weapons, just ask. So, who wants to go first?”

  
 _Let’s do it_.  
“I’ll start.”

  
Brian looked at him warily.

  
“I’ve been hideous. I know that, and I deserve your fury. I’ve been conceited, selfish. Well, an asshole basically.” Might as well jump straight in. He could feel their eyes burning into him.

  
Roger’s eyes flashed. “Strong beginning.”

  
Freddie stared at the blonde. “Look, I’m happy to strip off my shirt and flagellate myself before you. Or rather, I could ask you a simple question -”

  
“I’m good with the flagellation.” Roger cut him off, deadpan.

  
Avoiding eye contact with the drummer, Freddie glanced at the others. John had a fixed gaze on the carpet, but Brian sent him a slight get on with it nod and that gave him the courage to push the next words out.

  
“What’s it going to take for you all to forgive me?”

  
Immediately, “Is that what you want, Freddie? I forgive you.” Brian flicked his hands. “Is that it? Can we go now?”

  
“No.” Freddie felt the panic at the thought of the boys leaving before he could convince, beg, them to stay. The thought was almost too much to bear. “I went to Munich. I hired a bunch of guys. I told them exactly what I wanted them to do and the problem was – they did it.” He looked up. “No pushback from Roger. None of your rewrites. None of his funny looks.” After a moment, “I need you. And you need me.”

  
Freddie could see John, while determinedly still avoiding eye contact, had slightly relaxed. Roger’s eyes had softened, and Freddie felt a swell of emotion at it. He’d always had a soft spot for the drummer – truly he was the one the singer was most desperate to mend his relationship with, although he would never let on. He hit Brian’s knee lightly, “Let’s face it. We’re not bad for four aging queens. So, go ahead. Name your terms.”

  
“Could you give us a moment, please, Fred?”

  
That was unexpected. While Freddie wasn’t exactly sure what he did expect to happen, being banished from the room wasn’t one. But he caused this mess, so he was ready to take any punishment the band deemed appropriate.  
It was a very humbling experience to stand and head towards the door, feeling all eyes on him. Freddie thrived on being the center of attention, but today, he wanted to disappear into the carpet never to be seen again. He glanced at Roger as he passed, searching for some sort of reassurance, but the blonde averted his eyes. That was when Freddie was stunned to notice an angry pink scar stretched down the front of his friend’s chest.

  
What had he missed?

  
Standing in the hall and feeling very much like a chastised school boy, Freddie marveled at the scar, stomach in knots. The simmering anger, leftover from the revelation that Paul had been keeping him away from his family, came surging back. Apparently, he had missed something else too.  
Something _massive._  
It broke his heart to realize just how this had gotten so mucked up, and what it had cost him.

  
Miami had joined him in the hallway. “They’ll be alright. They just need a bit of time.”

  
Time.

  
Freddie swallowed nervously, frantically trying to hold his emotions in check. He feared this whole thing was too little, too late. But he wasn’t too keen to share, not just yet. “What if I don’t have time?”

  
“What do you mean, Fred?”

  
Blissfully, the office door opened before Freddie had to excuse away his comment. John stood in the hallway, squinty smile in place. “You can come back in now, if you’d like.”

  
It was time to face the jury. Freddie jammed his hands in his pocket as he passed back through the room towards his chair, directly across from Roger. He couldn’t keep his gaze away from Roger’s chest.  
When the blonde leaned forward, his shirt shifted closed hiding the scar. “We decided...what did we decide?” The drummer started, but looked to John as suddenly as he’d begun.

  
Freddie braced himself.

  
“From now on, every song, no matter who wrote it, music, lyrics – it’s by Queen. Not one of us, just Queen. All the money, all the credits, split four ways evenly.” John said, calm and concise.

  
If that’s the condition, Freddie was more than willing to comply. He felt his heart could burst in relief. “Done.”

  
“We have a problem with the people around you.” Roger stared at Freddie, challenging.

  
“Paul is out. I fired him.”

  
“On what pretext?” John finally tore his gaze from the carpet.

  
“Villainy.”

  
The bassist gave an amused grin, flicking his fingers.

  
“What else?” Freddie could feel the tension leaving his shoulders. These were the first, tentative steps towards reconciliation. It was going to be a long road to gain their trust completely, and it seemed like something major had happened to their drummer that Freddie both loathed and desperately wanted to learn.

  
“Bob Geldof.” Miami spoke up from behind his desk. “I called to convince him to squeeze you guys into the lineup for the Live Aid concert but he wants an answer now. You have to make a decision. Every ticket already sold. One hundred thousand people at Wembley, one hundred thousand people at JFK Stadium in Philadelphia, a global TV audience around the world of 150 countries, 13 satellites. The Olympics only had three.”

  
Roger lifted his hands in disbelief. “We haven’t played together in over a year. It’s kinda suicide to play again with my -” He gestured at his chest, then quickly stopped himself, wide eyes glancing at Freddie, who stared right back with an eyebrow raised in question. “You know, and for the first time in front of millions.”

  
“Try over 1.5 billion.” Roger glared at Brian, ignoring Freddie’s concerned look. “Who are these four dinosaurs? Where’s Madonna?” Brian’s voice had taken on a mocking tone.

  
_Wonderful._

  
“It’s a twenty-minute set. Everyone gets the same. Jagger, Bowie, Elton, McCartney, The Who, Led Zeppelin, Phil Collins, REO Speedwagon, Bob Dylan.”

  
“Certainly good company.” John cut in, awestruck.

  
“Anybody who is anybody is doing this concert.” Miami continued, shuffling papers at his desk. 

  
“Look,” Freddie cut in, his voice taking on a desperate tone. “All I know is that if we wake up the day after this concert and we didn’t do our part, we’re going to regret it till the day we die.” His eyes had a faraway look in them, lips shifting nervously over his teeth. “Please.”

  
Freddie was startled when a hand dropped onto his own. Brian’s hand pulled the singer up into a tight embrace. Overwhelmed by this feeling of coming home, Freddie couldn’t hold back his emotions anymore. He buried his face into the guitarist’s shoulder, then lifted his head when he felt another hand on his shoulder. John’s own face had a few tears of his own and it wasn’t often that Deaky broke down like this. Freddie reached his arm out and pulled John into a hug.

  
“Thank you, dears.” He whispered, not trusting his voice beyond that.

  
The trio parted, self-consciously wiping their eyes. “Getting soft in our old age.” Brian joked.

  
Freddie felt a laugh erupted from his chest. Oh, how good it felt.

  
“Speak for yourself, mate.” Roger was suddenly right there.

  
Freddie stared at his friend, all blonde hair and sunshine, before reaching out to him. The drummer grabbed him with his calloused hand and dragged him into an embrace that left Freddie breathless. “Don’t you dare leave us again.” Roger all but growled in his ear.

  
Freddie struggled to swallow the lump in his throat at his words.

  
 _Too little, too late_.

  
“I wouldn’t dream of it, darling.” Freddie touched the drummer’s face, soaking up the sun. His eyes drifted downward, catching the top of the scar peeking out from the blonde’s open shirt collar, and he couldn’t stop his hand from gently pulling the shirt aside to get a better look.

  
Freddie was suddenly very aware of the room, how Brian and John had gone silent behind him, how the clock on Miami’s desk was ticking away, how the vent above them was pumping air into the room loudly, Roger’s breath on his face. The drummer was staring at him nervously.

  
_Darling Roger, what did you do to yourself?_

  
Before he could force the words out, he heard Brian behind him. “It seems we have a bit to catch up on. Anyone fancy a drink?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing!  
> Please review :)

(OVER A YEAR AGO) 

  
Consciousness slammed into Roger like a truck that morning. He dragged his exhausted eyes open and stared out the window, watching the sun through his open curtains.

_Should’ve closed them last night._

With a mighty groan, Roger sat up in bed, rolling his tight shoulders and wondering at their stiffness. The head rush didn’t even phase him as he climbed off the bed and headed to the bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the slightly dirty mirror, and splashed his face with water to try and wake himself up. That stubborn bruising under his eyes was seriously getting old.

A glance at the clock let on that John and Brian were coming to pick him up any minute. He’d definitely overslept.

Shaking the numbness out of his fingers, Roger grabbed the first pair of pants tossed on the floor and a white button up. Roger heard John’s car coming up the drive and shoved himself away from the mirror and out of the bathroom, nipping a pair of sunglasses from his jacket on the way.

One step at a time. But as he was locking up his flat, Roger’s stomach pooled with anxiety. _It’s nothing._

Roger stalked down the drive, yanked open John’s back door and shoved himself into the seat, steeling his features behind the sunglasses.

“Morning,” John’s voice was dry as he caught Roger’s eyes through the rearview mirror.

“All right, boys?” He plastered an obnoxious grin on his face, reaching forwards to pat their arms in greeting. The guitarist rolled his eyes and smacked his wayward hand when Roger started palming his face for good measure.

Lulled by John’s steady driving, Roger concentrated on his breathing, but found his breaths feeling shallow and small. No use panicking now. Okay, it’s fine. _It is._ Just keep breathing. Out of habit, Roger began tapping out a beat on his knee, trying to ground himself and match his breathing to the tapping. It seemed to help. By the time the band pulled up to Garden Lodge, the pressure in his chest had relaxed, his breathing back under control. Time to crack on with it.

* * *

“MTV banned our video. The youth of America. We helped give birth to MTV.” Freddie turned from the mantle to stare at them, eyes flaming and voice bitter.

Roger watched as his hand anxiously swirled his drink. John was turned towards the window behind the drummer, hand covering his mouth and looking deep in thought.

“It’s America. They’re Puritans in public, perverts in private.” Leave it to Brian to try to reason through it. It’s not like this was the first time Queen had gotten backlash for one thing or another, but this time they were breaking from within and couldn’t withstand the pressure pushing down.

“I’m never touring in the U.S. again.” Roger scoffed under his breath. _Well, that’s it then._ Brian seemed to share his sentiment, and shot him a look of exasperation. John just rolled his eyes.

“And I’m the one being blamed for it. Not you, dear, who’s idea I believe it was to dress up in drag.” Freddie held an accusing finger out at Roger who had been uncharacteristically quiet and pale for the most of this conversation. “And not you. Not even you. Who wrote the bloody thing.” He shifted his fury at John. The bassist just looked at Freddie, resigned. The singer worked his way around the room towards the window, passing a slightly smug looking Paul. “No. Crazy cross-dressing Freddie. Freddie the freak. Freddie the fag.” He exhaled sharply, and in almost the same breath, he whipped around to face them. “I’m tired of touring. Aren’t you? Album, tour, album tour. I want to do something different.”

Brian dropped his hands on the back of the couch sharply, and turned to look at the singer incredulously. “We’re a band. That’s what bands do. Album, tour, album tour -”

“Well, I need a break.” Freddie cut Brian off. “I’m sick of it.”

There was a moment of stunned silence from the other band members. Roger could see the frustration on Brain’s face at Freddie’s stubbornness. The tension in the room was building as quickly as the pressure was making itself known in Roger’s chest, almost too much to ignore.

“What are you saying, Freddie?” John finally broke the silence.

Freddie didn’t answer. The singer was lighting a cigarette, giving his hands something to do. John waited expectantly, face screwing up, his expression challenging. Brian raised his eyebrows in a get on with it kind of way. Roger just waited for the bomb to drop. He felt it in his gut, in the twinge that wouldn’t go away. Freddie glanced over at Paul, and the two shared a look Roger didn’t understand, but he knew it wasn’t good news for the rest of them.

Finally, “I’ve signed a deal with CBS records.”

Brain flipped around on the couch to stare dumbfounded at Freddie. John dropped his head into his hand. Roger surged to the end of his seat, hands shaking.

“You’ve done what?”

“Without telling us.”

“What kind of deal?”

Freddie had the decency to look apologetic. “Look, I’m not saying we won’t record or ever tour again. Queen will go on. But I need to do something different. Do you know what I mean? I need to grow. What’s the song? Fly away?”

A scoff from John. “Spread my wings and fly away.”

“Spread my wings and fly away.” Freddie smiled.

Brian couldn’t hold the bite from his tone. “A solo album?”

“Two actually.” Paul’s high voice chimed in, and Brian stared at him. “Back to back.”

_That’s it._

“Another word out of you and I’ll throw you out the bloody window.” Roger snapped.

“But that’s years Freddie. I mean, it’ll take years.” There was John, trying to channel some sense into this situation.

“Ye of little faith.” Blowing out the cigarette smoke, he seemed to be trying to convince himself of it.

“I don’t believe this.” Roger turned to face Freddie, who wouldn’t look him in the eye. “How much?” Freddie turned back to the window. His question hung in the air. “What did they pay you?” Roger tried again, rage nearly boiling over. He hadn’t let himself feel this strongly in months, but the shock of Freddie’s confession brought it snarling out. “I want to know how much they paid you!” Roger was on his feet, ready to grab that stubborn friend of his and show him exactly how he felt about the situation. His head felt heavy, black spots covering his vision momentarily.

Freddie jerked around, “Four million dollars!”

Roger felt like the entire world had been yanked out from under him. He stared at Freddie, mouth hanging open in shock. The tightness in his chest was spreading down his arm and up into his neck. He closed his eyes in disbelief. Trying to regain control over his body, Roger quietly walked around the edge of the room to use the back of the couch as a casual support, John wound tight in front of him.

“That’s more than any Queen deal.” John said, bitterly.

“Look, the routine is killing us. I mean, you must all want a break from all the arguments. I mean, whose song gets on the album, whose song is the single, who wrote what, who gets a bigger slice of the royalties, what’s on the B-side, all of it. You must need a break.”

Ignoring Freddie’s ramblings and justifications, Roger began pacing behind the couch, panting. There wasn’t enough air in here.

“Freddie, we’re a family.” Brian’s tone shouted betrayal.

“No, we’re not! We’re not a family,” there was no hesitation and Freddie’s tone was savage. “You’ve got families, what have I got?”

“You’ve got four million dollars. Perhaps you can buy yourself a family.” John’s tone was just as harsh, but coming from the quiet bassist, it was brutal to hear. John was never afraid to say it how it was.

Freddie turned away from his once family. “I won’t compromise my vision any longer.”

Indignation exploded in the drummer, and it distracted Roger from his thudding heart. “Compromise? Are you joking?” He threw a hand up, emphasizing his point. “You were working at Heathrow before we gave you a chance.”

Freddie stalked around the room, voice razor sharp. “And without me, you’d be a dentist drumming 12/8-time blues at the weekend at the Crown and Anchor.” He turned his glare on Brian, voice taking on a holier than thou tone. “And you. Well, you would be Dr. Brian May author of a fascinating dissertation on the cosmos that no one ever reads.” Ignoring Paul’s not-so-silent snicker, Freddie’s voice lowered, almost whispering. “And Deaky, for the life of me, _nothing_ comes to mind.”

John gave a nod. “I studied electrical engineering. Does that meet your standard?” he said, tersely.

Freddie shook his head in amused disbelief. “Perfect.” He reached down in front of Brian to stub out his cigarette on the tray, avoiding all eye contact as he began to leave the room.

Roger, with his hands on the back of the couch in an attempt to hold himself up, summoned one last bit of strength as Freddie passed him by. “You just killed Queen.”

“Oh, give it a kiss one day, she might wake up.”

Roger turned his back on his friend. The pressure was nearing an unprecedented level. He felt like he was breathing through a straw, chest beginning to pump frantically in a desperate attempt to get oxygen. He screwed his eyes shut. _Focus. Breathe. It’s not that bad._

“You need us, Freddie.” Brian said, voice completely gentle. “More than you know.”

“I don’t need anyone.” And with those last devastating words, Freddie stormed out of the room. Paul calmly followed in his wake, dropping his hand on Roger’s shoulder as he passed. The drummer flinched away savagely, causing his already pounding head to spin. And it wasn’t until they heard Freddie’s car down the drive, that the boys let out a collective sigh. No words were needed.

The comparatively dull panic Roger had been enduring the whole conversation suddenly became a blazing agony, and breathing alone seemed an impossible task. His thoughts became clouded. The aching numbness in his arm and neck seemed to increase with each beat of his heart. He wrapped an arm around his chest, keeping the other firmly planted on the couch, fingers scratching at the fabric. In the haze, there’s a concerned voice in the background, but it’s like he’s under water. It’s all he can do to stay on his feet.

Brian was running over the last half hour in his mind, trying to see how and where it’d all gone so wrong. A sudden wheezing sound pierced through the thick fog. He first glanced at John, hands clasped in front of him and head down, and then to Roger. Something was seriously wrong with the drummer. Roger was pale, sweat glistening on his forehead. His eyes were screwed shut and he was pitching forward over the edge of the couch, clutching his chest.

“Hey!” The guitarist sprang into action. He crossed the room just as Roger’s knees gave out, strong hands catching his friend’s arms and gently easing him to the ground. Roger was gasping, eyes wide open in panic. “Rog! What’s happening?” He asked, frantically turning to John. “John!” The bassist was frozen in shock for several seconds, before scrambling off the couch over to them, determination written on his features.

Roger couldn’t answer. His mouth opened and closed with each breath, groaning until an unexpected cry tore from his lips. He closed his eyes miserably, gripping Brian’s hands with a strength that left Brian breathless. “Mate, what’s going on? How do I help you here? Oh my -” Brian could feel panicked tears burning his eyes, but they didn’t fall. 

“He can’t just leave.” Roger forced out between clenched teeth. “Freddie. He can’t do this...”

 _Oh._ “Just breathe, Rog. Look at me.” Brian clung to Roger’s hands. The drummer stared at his friend, struggling to match his breathing with Brian’s.

John was next to them now. “I think he’s having a panic attack.” He placed a calming hand behind Roger’s neck, began kneading his fingers into the skin there to try and ground the dummer. “Easy there, Taylor. Come on.”

After a moment, the pressure began to fade. Roger finally took in a deep breath, closing his eyes. The twinge in his chest was gone. All that remained was the pounding headache. He was completely exhausted.

John pushed a golden strand back, catching Roger’s eye. “See, it’s not all bad.”

Roger gave a slightly hysterical laugh. “It can’t really get worse though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU! Your responses have kept me going! I've got a plan and a lot of ground work to lay. I'm sorry this still keeps you hanging, but that's part of the fun.  
> Hope you liked it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing :)  
> Please review!  
> Warning: hospital and surgery talk! Nothing too graphic, I hope!

_It can’t really get worse though._

_Right._

“John Doe broadsided by a semi-truck that ran a red. Blunt-force trauma to the head, chest, and abdomen. Persistent hypotension after two liters of saline. Pulse is thready at 130.” The paramedic’s voice was clipped and professional, reciting the extent of his injuries as if he were reading out of a book, not talking about a person.

_You’re not dead. Just breathe._

“I’ll need four units of blood. He’s got a head laceration, probably multiple fractures.”

The panic was rising. _Try to hold still._

“Bad motor vehicle accident, had to be extricated. Loss of consciousness at the scene. He’s poorly responsive.” A light straight into his eyes. “What’s your name, sir? Can you hear me?”

 _Yes, I can damn well hear you._ But he couldn’t form any words.

“Loss of verbal skills, but his pupils are equal and reactive. That’s a good sign. He’s got a flail chest in the right. I need a chest tube now. Sir, can you tell me your name?”

Roger dragged his heavy eyes open and tiredly looked at the nurse. Why couldn’t he get his mouth to work? He squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of agony washed over.

“He’s still hypotensive and tachycardic.” _If that meant my chest feels like it’s being crushed, then yes. They’re spot on._ “He could be bleeding in his chest. Hang two units of blood. I need a trauma panel and x-ray. And somebody page surgery again.”

The nurse looked down at Roger again, eyes kind. “I’m sorry, this is gonna hurt, but we have to do it.” She lightly touched his arm as she spoke. He flinched when he felt her hands move to his side. A sudden sharp pain exploded across his already aching ribs as she shoved a tube into his chest in one quick movement. He groaned loudly despite his chest not moving quite right, eyes flying open in shock. The pressure reduced, tension draining along with it and Roger felt himself relaxing.

A hand on his shoulder. “That must have hurt, I’m sorry. Can you please tell me your name? Can you tell me anything?”

_I'm trying._

“Brian.”

“Is that your name?” His vision swam, but her face was directly above his.

“No.” He couldn’t get enough air. “Call Brian.” He forced out, pleading with her with his eyes.

Lights flashed across his vision again. “I’m ordering a head C.T. We don’t know the extent of his head injury.”

Another doctor hovered over him, hands prodding - _crushing_ \- his aching ribs. Someone was binding his numbed wrist up tight. Roger felt his eyes rolling back into his head, breathing becoming more erratic. Not so gentle hands were pressing into his middle, followed by something cold making his stomach jerk away painfully.

“Look at the ultrasound. He’s bleeding into his belly. He needs to go straight to the O.R. The C.T. can wait, he’s still responding to us.”

“Spine, chest, and pelvis films are up.” The curtain was pulled closed, and their voices drifted out of his reach.

_I’m not dead. I’m not dead._

The tightness in his chest was suddenly overwhelming. Roger felt his body curling into itself in an attempt to alleviate the pain, but it only increased tenfold. A loud cry erupted from his throat, eyes screwing shut in agony.

“You need to calm down.” Hands that had once felt comforting were restraining him. He fought back weakly, hysterically.

_This can’t be happening._

“Sir, we need to sedate you now so we can secure your airway.” A mask was on his face. “You’re going to be fine. We’ve got you.”

* * *

_Where the actual hell did that come from?_

_I_ _n the moments that followed his little meltdown, Roger’s mind was still spiraling. All his life, Roger Taylor had lived his life on the razor’s edge; that edge stoked his hot-headedness a little too well. But anger was familiar, it was comfortable, he understood it. But this? He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. How was it that one person could have such an effect on his life and emotions like that?_

Damn you, Freddie Mercury.

_It seemed like the world should have stopped spinning the moment Freddie left. But here they were._

_“Damn him.” He ground out, hand going up to pinch the bridge of his nose. His head was pounding, a sharp ache sitting behind his eye._

_“How are you feeling, mate?” Brian asked, gently, watching his friend. He grabbed the drummer’s calloused hand and rubbed comforting circles on it._

_“Like shit.” Roger’s voice was quiet._

_“Well, you look gorgeous.” John chimed in, deadpan._

_Roger threw a scowl at the bass player. As he pulled his hand out of Brian’s to shove John’s face away, he couldn’t help the smile that brushed his lips. John caught his hand and pull Roger to his feet, holding him steady as his blood pressure equaled out._

_The boys waited in silence._

_“I don’t want you to tell Fred about this.” Roger’s eyes took on a pained look. “Ever.”_

_“He doesn’t get to know. He doesn’t need us, remember? The twat.” John fixed a squinting smile at the drummer, shaking his head._

_Brian watched the exchange, smiling to himself. John and Roger had always had a special relationship, being the youngest ones in the group. John’s quick wit could always get Roger in a way that Brian never could. The jealousy of it had burned out years ago, and now it was a comfort that John could so easily steer Roger away from the edge, especially now._

* * *

“One, two, three.”

Roger felt his body lift off the stretcher and onto the operating table. Someone’s hands were pushing air into his burning lungs through the tube in his throat.

Their voices ebbed and flowed, muffled as if he were under water. He couldn’t feel his arm.

_What is happening?_

“We have to work fast people.”

Everything went dark.

* * *

_"Now, you're sure?" Roger placed his hands on the passenger window of John's car, peering in at his bandmates. The anxiety was pooling in his gut again - or did it not ever stop? - and he couldn't get away fast enough._

_He needed to be alone._

_“Mate. Please. I’m good, I promise. I just need to think.” Not about Freddie. Not about Queen. Just think._

_“Okay.” John gave him a shrug, but Roger could see right through it. John was crushed as he was, and it was really beginning to hit as the shock wore off._

_“I’ll ring you in the morning, yeah?” Brian said, holding it together better than all of them._

_“Take care,” Roger pressed a hand into Brian’s shoulder. “And thanks. You know, for that.” He felt his cheeks flushing._

_“We're here for you, Rog.” Roger stepped back from John’s car, sucking in a deep breath as it disappeared down the drive. Once they were gone, he stepped into the front door to snag his car keys off the table and headed towards the garage. A good long drive should do him good._

_It really was too bad this just didn’t seem to be his day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO.  
> I think it goes without saying that I'm no doctor - I'm a phleb does that count? But I've watched a shiz-ton of Grey's Anatomy so basically I'm an expert on all things medical drama (definitely inspired by a certain episode) *obvious sarcasm*  
> I'm sure there's mistakes in here, but I don't super care. I'm more worried about making sure the emotion of it gets across rather than fact.  
> Also, I played around with a little back-and-forth thing with the timeline here a bit. Thought it'd be a cute kind of thing. Sorry if it's confusing.
> 
> Speech over. Thanks for your continued support!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing :)

“Paul. Can I speak to Freddie?” Mary tried to calm the pounding of her heart as she clutched the phone with cold hands. She could hear the light tinkling piano keys somewhere through the phone.

_Freddie._

After dropping the bomb that he’d signed a solo deal and the devastating exchange between him and the band that followed, Freddie had stormed out and shipped himself off to Munich, Paul right on his heels. That had been over a week ago, and no one had been able to get ahold of him since.

“Oh, Mary. No, he can’t talk right now. He’s working day and night, constantly.” Mary knew that Paul was attempting to sound apologetic, she recognized the “Freddie won’t listen to _me_ either” tone he was trying, but it only came across as condescending. He sounded much too pleased with himself for being able to turn her calls, and everyone else’s for that matter, away. It was maddening that Freddie absolutely refused to talk to any of them, that he couldn’t see Paul for what he was, but in this situation, Mary was willing to put aside her own frustrations.

“Please. I’ve got to talk to him about Roger, he’s-”

“Like I said, he’s busy. I’ll have him ring you back if he can.”

“Paul. He’d want to be here.”

A beat.

“It seemed pretty clear that he’s moved on. I suggest you do the same.”

“He needs to know what happened.”

“He already knows about the accident.”

Mary was reeling at this point, mouth open in shock. “What?”

_He knows. But he hasn’t reached out._

“He’ll come if he can get away. I will certainly tell him you called.” Paul cut in before she could question his words, irritatingly calm despite the bomb he’d just dropped.

“But-”

“Cheers.” The receiver clicked.

Mary sat in shock for a moment, eyes burning. She leaned her head back on the headboard, closing her eyes for a moment to hold the tears back, frustration nearly boiling over. She picked the phone back off the hook to dial Brian but dropped the phone onto the receiver almost in the same movement. No. This needed to be dealt with in person.

Mary pulled on her coat, glancing out the bedroom window out of habit towards Garden Lodge. The light in the window was off, a bleak reminder that Freddie wasn’t with them. Not just physically, but deliberately and intentionally removed from their lives.

_No looking back, only forward._

She knew Brian would be at the hospital. In the quiet of her car, Mary let a few tears escape, crying for the unfairness of it. She cried for Freddie - _I don’t need anyone_ \- Mercury. She cried for Brian, who had the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. She cried for Deaky, who in the span of a few days had lost one best friend and could possibly lose another tonight. And she cried for Roger who was waiting for a miracle.

* * *

“Hey there.” Mary couldn’t stop herself from crossing the room to press a soft kiss to the drummer’s forehead, careful of each bruise and broken bone. Her attention is drawn to movement from the thick tube inserted down his throat to help him breathe. The hissing of it matches the rise and fall of Roger’s bandaged chest, but he doesn’t stir otherwise.

Mary wipes a tear and busies herself with brushing back a blond strand from his forehead. “We’ll have to do something about that.” She whispers into his ear. Roger would have hated that they’d had to shave some of his hair off. Maybe telling him so will make him angry enough that it’ll wake him up. It was worth a try.

Brian smiled up at Mary from what is now _his_ chair, the apparently more-comfortable-than-it-looks plastic recliner that’s been shoved up next to the bed. She leaned back on the edge of the bed and placed a gentle hand on Roger’s leg.

“Did you call him?” Brian asked after a moment.

Mary took a steadying breath and studied Roger’s calloused knuckles to ground herself before she broke the news. Brian, ever observant, beat her to the punch. “Freddie’s not coming, is he?”

She shook her head, swallowing back the lump suddenly in her throat.

“Just as well, innit? We aren’t his family, remember?” A new voice broke the silence. John stood in the doorway holding the take-out cups of coffee he’d gotten from the hospital cafeteria. He entered the room, handed Brain his, and gave Mary a brief kiss on the cheek. Mary cupped his face before he passed to reclaim his spot at the window.

“He knows what happened. But he can’t come because -” she began.

“You don’t need to defend him.” John said, quietly.

Mary shook her head, but felt a swell of affection for both men. They didn’t deserve any of this.

“Really. I am sorry. I thought I could get through to him.”

“We appreciate you for trying, Mary. Don’t blame yourself.” Brian said, taking a careful sip of the hot drink.

The fitful beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound for a moment.

“So, have they said anything yet?” Might as well jump right in, though she dreads to hear his answer. Roger was stable at the moment, but the memories of the past few days were fresh in her mind, and would haunt her for the foreseeable future.

“They won’t know anything concrete until he wakes up.” Brian looks down.

“The swelling is going down, though. They have mentioned that.” John says.

Brian’s smile is carefully restrained. “His chances are slipping each day he doesn’t wake.”

“Bri.” John said, sharply.

“He will get better.” She says.

“I just want to be prepared.” Brian looked completely shaken. “His heart’s shot. And possible brain damage? They’re running tests since…” he trailed off, looking down at his fidgeting hands.

“Since he’s not waking up.” Mary finished, warily eyeing the guitarist. They were both thinking it, but Brian couldn’t bear to say it out loud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Freddie, I seem to struggle with the in-between moments. I've been dealing with some major writer's block this week but I wanted to get something out there, no matter how lame it was. I'm not so good at "filler" chapters, but hopefully now we are full steam ahead.
> 
> If you have been reading this, thank you so much! I never thought I could ever do something like this and your responses keep me excited!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing :)
> 
> Please review! It makes my day!

_ Brian had gotten the call just as he’d settled in bed for the night. He had half a heart to ignore it, he couldn’t bear any more talk today. And it wasn’t as if he wasn’t up way later than normal for no reason - he simply couldn’t shut his mind off after the events of today. The phone rang shrilly, seemingly growing louder each time it was ignored. Exasperated, the guitarist ripped the covers off and stalked into the hallway towards the phone. He glanced at the clock as he passed, noting the time - just after 3 am - and grabbed the phone off the receiver just to have his world shattered. _

_ And really, he should have just gone to sleep instead because he now sits with his arms pinned against his chest to try and still his anxiety. His bouncing feet are the only sound in their private waiting room. He is sitting in a hard plastic chair, staring at the clock and watching John pace in his own stress. Brian shakes his head, not being able to distract himself from the dark spiral of his mind. He picks at a string on the sleeve of his jumper, He rolls his neck, trying to relieve the stiffness. He cracks his knuckles over and over. _

_ He leans into John’s path for his attention. “When did they say they’d give an update?”  _

_ John clears his throat. “They didn’t.”  _

_ Brian stands up.“Maybe a walk will help?”  _

_ “What does it look like I’m doing, Bri” John snaps. _

_ Arms lifted in surrender, he settles back in to wait, watching John carefully. He’d never seen Deaky wound so tight. But then again, they’d never been in a situation like this.  _

_ He takes a deep breath, the horrific thought bursting out before he can stop it. “What if he doesn’t survive?”  _

_ John looked over at him, sharply. “Brian. Please don’t put that in my head.” _

_ There were two gentle knocks at the door, and suddenly a woman in scrubs was standing behind them, hair hidden under a surgical cap. Brian had never felt more dread and relief simultaneously. Finally, they could get some answers to keep him from the dark spiral in his mind. _

_ “Family of Roger Taylor?” She was rubbing her hands together with hand sanitizer as she walked into the room, glancing up at them with kind eyes. _

_ “That’s us.” Brian stood, John falling into step behind him nervously.  _

_ The young doctor reached out to shake their hands. “I’m Doctor Hansen, I’m the surgeon on Mr. Taylor’s case.” _

_ “Is he alright?” _ __

_ “How did it go?” _

_ Brian and John were tripping over each other in their haste to get answers. _

_ “The operation was successful, but there were some complications.” _

_ “What does that mean?” _ He’s dead. She’s come to tell us he didn’t make it.

_ “When Mr. Taylor was admitted last night, things were looking fairly good. He was initially responsive to us, which is positive when there’s a  _ _ fractured skull involved. There was major trauma to his torso, which we didn’t realize the extent of until we took him to surgery. He had a flail chest - meaning a portion of his ribs were separated from his ribcage - and with broken ribs, there’s the risk of lung and heart damage. His right arm is completely shattered. During surgery, we began to repair the damage when he crashed on the table.”  _

_ John was gripping Brian’s arm so tight his fingers were numb. The bass player sunk into a chair, horrified.  _ _ The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Hearing the doctor’s news had Brain feeling slightly nauseous.  _

_ “We opened his chest and that’s when we found major bleeding from a laceration across his heart. We were able to revive him but that, along with his head injury, have him on a long road to recovery.” She is very matter of fact, which Brian both appreciates and loathes. _

_ “Can we see him?” John finally speaks. His voice cracks.  _

_ “He’s still in recovery, but I’ve come to take you to his room. You can wait for him there.” _

_ “But he’ll be alright?” _

_ “It’s too early to tell for sure. The first 24 hours are critical but if he makes it through that, I believe so.” _

_ “And what about his head injury? What should we prepare for?” _

Deep breaths, in and out.

_ The doctor tilts her head to the side, eyeing the pair. “With head injuries, we have to anticipate memory loss, mood swings, loss of language skills -” She sighs, trailing off. “But we really won’t know the extent of it all until he is conscious. We’ve done all that we can, now it’s up to him to do the rest. I’ll take you to him.” _

* * *

It was John’s turn to stay. Not that both he and Brian were reluctant to spend any amount of time in the intensive care unit, but they had to get out and shower every so often. It was an unspoken rule that one of them would always be with Roger so he wouldn’t wake alone.

So that he wouldn’t die alone.

_ Now he’s starting to sound like Brian. _

The heart monitor beeped to his right. He’d never thought he’d get to a point in his life where he understood what each number meant and what each hanging IV bag was providing, and the details of hospital so well. He knew Roger’s heart was repaired, but  _ limping _ . The nurses who came by and did their rounds always had the same expression after listening to his chest and changing the bandages across it.

John felt a wave of sadness wash over him looking at his friend. Sitting on Roger’s left side, John could pretend that the blonde was simply sleeping as that side of him was virtually whole.

_ If only. _

John grasped Roger’s hand in his own, and brought it to his lips briefly. “Come on, mate.”

Roger didn’t stir.

John remembers seeing his friend for the first time, after hearing the report from his doctor. The bandage down the front of his chest, his arm propped up and bound in a complicated cast, the tube shoved down his throat - those hadn’t even been the most shocking. It was the complete stillness. As long as John had known Roger, he’d never seen the drummer this quiet. 

It had been five days since the accident, and he was still unresponsive. The bruising across his forehead had shifted down into his eyes. John had been heartbroken at the sight of his now shorn hair on the right side. A stiff, white bandage covered most of it, but it was a stark reminder that everything was different.

“You can’t keep doing this, you know.” John whispered to his friend. “You can’t just sleep away your problems.” He lightly stroked the blonde’s arm and wipes at a tear that escapes and then contents himself to squeezing his friend’s hand every so often, studying his face for any sign of life.

“We’re barely holding it together without you, Rog.”

_ Please wake up _ .


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing :) 
> 
> I tried something different with this chapter. I hope you like it.

Brian was sitting in the hospital cafeteria, sipping a styrofoam cup of tea and reading the headlines.The media hadn’t caught wind of Roger’s involvement in the accident just yet; they had Miami to thank for that. They were only taking calls from friends in the business. That was expected. But he didn’t know how much longer their media solitude would last. And he didn’t think they could bear to take on any questions. Over a week of quiet had been a blessing when it was in reality, a week of hell.

  
Brian bitterly dropped the paper to the table when Freddie’s name flashed across the top. How could Freddie just _not_ come? Nothing was more important than family right now. Did all those years mean anything or were they just a means to an end for him? From where Brian sat right now, there was no coming back from it. No forgiveness.

  
The sound of a chair being dragged against the tile shook him out of his thoughts as John sat across from him. The bass player placed his notebook on the table tentatively. His expression turned hard at seeing what Brian had been reading.

  
“Is everything alright?” Brian asked calmly, despite all the scenarios clearly running through his head.

  
“No change. Just needed a break.” John’s face relaxed into a smile.

  
“Care for some tea?”

  
John shakes his head and then shifts, suddenly uncomfortable.“What happens now?”

  
“With what?”

  
“With Rog. It’s been more than a week and he's still not responding. So, what happens now?” 

  
Brian takes a deep breath. “Dr. Hansen said the skull fracture will heal eventually, but there is no telling the damage already in place. His arm will need more surgery. They’re watching his heart carefully.”

  
“I was there too Brian and I heard what she said. I just want to know what you think?”

  
“Think about what?” _Please don’t start._

  
“What happens if he doesn’t wake up. Every day his chances for full recovery are getting smaller.”

  
“It’s only been a few days, Deaky. He’ll wake up.”

  
“It’s been eight days, Bri.”

  
Brian looked down at his tea, angrily balling his fists. “John…”

  
“What if he doesn’t wake up?”

  
The guitarist studies John with narrow eyes. It’s the first time his darkest fears have been said aloud. “I can’t talk about it. I won’t. Not until I have to.”

* * *

  
  
“Freddie. It’s really great.”  
  
Freddie took a slow drag of his cigarette, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Something was off.  
Paul dropped a hand onto his leg, trying to hide the pang when Freddie didn’t react to him.Why was he acting like this? Paul had done nothing but support him, he was there for him when Freddie chose _him_ over them. He was the only one who understood.   
  
“It’s shit.”   
  
Paul looked at him with kind eyes. “Maybe a break will help?” He took Freddie’s hand gently, pulling his attention away from the cloud of smoke.   
  
The singer shoved himself up from the chair and stubbed out his cigarette. “I just need a moment to think.” He dragged his hand out of Paul’s and went out the door without a backward glance.  
  
Paul has to swallow back the panic he felt whenever Freddie was gone. His strange behavior was making Paul paranoid. What if he figured it out Paul had actually suggested going solo, not John Reid? What if he figured out he’d been turning away his calls? And the accident? He couldn’t find out about that. Ever.  
  
Paul had to tread carefully when Freddie was in a mood like this. Push too far and he would fly over the edge.   
  
On their way to Munich. Freddie had asked if he had made the right decision.   
_Of course you did. They don’t understand, but maybe one day they will._  
  
The old brush of guilt flared up momentarily when Paul thought of his phone call with Mary over a week ago. Paul had heard about the accident, and after speaking with Mary it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. He’d quietly gotten the confirmation he needed after that phone call, Freddie none the wiser.   
  
Now to keep Freddie focused on the matter at hand.  
  
Paul could bear to lose the singer. Everything was falling into place now, but he had to be careful. It would be a bit more difficult to keep that from Freddie. There were too many lies going on, too many fingers in too many pots.   
  
Freddie was finally free. He didn’t have to answer to the rest of them anymore, didn’t have to be put down by them. And letting on that there had been an accident involving his former bandmates would surely send him spiraling back to them. Freddie and Roger had a close relationship, which caused strain between Paul and the rest of them over the years. If Freddie heard about Roger, his walls would crumble. Paul stuffed the guilt back where it belonged.   
  
He had a plan.  
  
“We’ll start again in fifteen, lads.” The hired band didn’t appear to hear him, as they were deeply engrossed in some sort of conversation.   
  
Paul bristled at being ignored, storming into the studio.  
  
“I heard he still hasn’t woken up. It’s a bloody tragedy.”   
  
_No._  
  
Paul steeled his features, putting on an air of casualness. “Who are you talking about?”   
  
“Haven’t you heard, mate?” A man who’s name he’d never bothered to remember was tuning his guitar. “Roger Taylor was in that crash almost two weeks ago.”  
  
“He’s in a bad way.” Another piped up.  
  
Paul swallowed the panic in his throat. “I’ve heard.”  
The group were now standing around Paul, eagerly waiting for his response.  
  
“How’s Freddie managing? Has he -”   
  
“That’s his business.” Paul cut the man off, giving him a steely glare. “And I’ll ask you not to bring it up to him at all, it’s been a terribly difficult thing for him. But he won’t let it distract from this album, and you shouldn’t either.”  


* * *

  
  
John and Brian hesitated in the doorway, greeted by the familiar sound of the heart monitor and _whooshing_ of the respirator. Having spent much of their time there, they noticed the minute changes in the drummer over the past eleven days. His face had healed considerably, the bruising around his eyes less noticeable. The large white bandage had been removed and replaced with a smaller one on his temple. The stitches on his eyebrow and framing his eye were peeking out from under steri strips. It was a small reassurance that things _could_ be alright again if he’d just wake up.  
  
John steered himself to the recliner, aching to pick up his book and disappear for a few chapters. Brian swayed on his feet in the doorway, looking miserable and overwhelmed.  
  
“I’ll sit with him, Bri. You rest.”  
  
The guitarist gave him a soft smile and retreated to the cushioned window bench. “I haven’t been sleeping, Deaky.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“It’s just, every time I close my eyes…”  
  
“I’ll be right here.” John worried about his friend. Brian struggled with things half as bad as this. John knew he was doing all he could to cope, but he was cracking. They both were.  
  
After their conversation - _or lack of_ \- in the cafeteria earlier this week, things had felt worse than ever between them. John didn’t mean to bring him down, but they had to start making decisions. He didn’t want to have the conversation either. But it was necessary. He committed to press Brian on the subject the coming weekend of things stayed as they were.   
  
John settled in to read, glancing over to his friends every so often, checking if they were both still asleep and feeling relief at one and despair at the other. After a moment, he reaches out to grab Roger’s good hand. The rough feeling grounded him, and Roger’s hands were very warm even in this state.  
  
Against his knuckles, he felt a twitch of Roger’s calloused fingers. John chuckles at his friend. “I know you hate holding my hand, but get you’ll over it.” he says, as he distractedly turns a page.  
  
Realizing what he just said, John looked at his friend. The drummer’s eyes are still closed. 

  
_I’ve imagined it._

  
John continued to read, trying to calm his thumping heart. But he couldn’t focus on the words.

  
Roger’s thumb jerks up in his hand. 

  
“Bri” John calls softly, not taking his eyes off Roger. “Brian.” A little louder.  
  
The guitarist blinks at him sleepily, irritation flashing across his face. “What?” As he became more aware, he lurched to his feet. “What is it? Is he okay?” He ran over and sat on the edge of Roger’s bed, staring intently at them both.  
  
“He moved his hand.”   
  
“What?” Brian’s voice is choked. He watches the blonde for any sign of life.  
  
The room grew heavy with a desperate sort of tension, when the door opened behind them. Dr. Hansen poked her head in.  
  
“Hey boys. How are we today?” The door slid closed quietly behind her as she entered the room. John was suddenly standing right in front of her.   
  
“He moved his hand!” He couldn’t contain his anxiety. _Excitement. Hope._  
  
The doctor moved to the bed and studied her patient carefully. She placed her stethoscope on his chest. She wrote down something in his chart, then she brought her hands to prod Roger’s head gently. “Did he open his eyes?” She asked as she lifted an eyelid to shine a light in it, noting any reaction.

  
“No?” Brian threw a look at John, who lifted his hands desperately.

  
“I was just sitting here and his fingers started moving. He was trying to squeeze my hand.” John felt himself deflating as each moment passed with no reaction from the blonde.

  
Dr. Hansen smiled carefully. “This can happen with coma patients. I’m sorry to say it was most likely just a reflex that moved his hand.”

  
Brian sunk back onto the window bench, head between his hands. John just glared at the drummer, still as death.

  
“Don’t worry. He still has time.” Dr. Hansen promised to return later, and quietly made her exit.

  
The heart monitor was louder than Roger's drums in that moment.

“Damn it.” John stared at Roger’s still form, bitter tears falling. 

  
Suddenly Brian was right next to him, a tentative hand on his arm. “John…”

  
John flinched away savagely. “No.”

  
“Deaky.” Brian wasn’t swayed. Strong arms were suddenly pulling John close, holding him secure. The bass player was stiff for a moment, then relaxed into his friend’s arms. A cry finally broke loose that had been held up for the last eleven days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm no doctor (again), but I've spent many months in the hospital with someone close to me. I draw most of these scenes/experiences from that. Once again I don't care for 100% accuracy when it comes to exact timelines with the movie or medical jargon, just emotion.
> 
> I'm blown away at the response this story is getting! Please leave a comment! It motivates me to writes fast and furiously. Things WILL start looking up next chapter!  
> aloha nui loa darlings :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing!
> 
> Something short and sweet for you :)

Brian had to laugh, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the pure relief or he was out of his mind. Roger doesn’t do anything half-assed. One minute he’s as still as death, he next he’s hacking up the breathing tube and scaring John shitless.  
  
John held Roger’s shoulders down to keep him from pulling the breathing tube out. “Easy there, Taylor. Come on.”  
  
Roger struggled against him, blue eyes panicked and teary. Brian gave a tired, scared laugh. “I don’t believe it.”   
  
“Someone’s coming, right?” John looked over his shoulder at Brian, frozen at the foot of the bed. Brian yelled out into the hallway once again, feeling his voice go hoarse.  
  
Nurses filled the room and pushed them aside immediately. That’s when it hit Brian. John hugged his shoulders from behind in a calming, grounding manner. It might have been self serving but it didn’t matter at the moment.  
  
Roger let out a terrible shout once his mouth is free, despite his throat being absolutely wrecked. The drummer then immediately sunk back into the pillows, face lined with exhaustion.   
  
“Welcome back, Mr. Taylor. It’s good to see those eyes.” Dr. Hansen is speaking to him calmly. “You’ve been in a car accident. You’re recovering at hospital. Do you understand me?” She shines a light into his eyes.   
  
He squints up at her but says nothing.   
  
Roger brought his good hand to his head as Dr. Hansen made notes in his chart. Brian and John watch his hand explore the bandage, feeling the stitches on his eyebrow in confusion. He takes in the thick cast around his right arm.   
  
“What the hell?” He’s holding a hand to his throat. It’s barely a whisper, rasping out from a clenched jaw, but to them it was the most beautiful sound in the world.  
  
“You’ve had a tube to help with your breathing, Mr. Taylor, so your throat will feel tender.”   
  
Roger blinked at them, glaring blearily around the room. “Where am I?”  
  
“You’re in intensive care at hospital. You’ve been in a car accident.”   
  
“An accident?” Roger’s eyes had a far away look in them.  
  
Brian sees his good hand frantically searching for something. He forces his stunned body to move and grabbed onto their drummer’s familiar, yet fragile, grasp.   
  
The blonde’s eyes snap to his, clear and blue again. “Brian.”  
  
Brian nearly _melts_ at hearing his name. “Yeah, mate. I’ve got you.” His eyes are burning.   
  
“What happened to me?” Brian could see the signs. They were burned into his memory, fresh as the day Freddie left. Roger’s breathing was growing more shallow by the moment, his face pinched in panic. His hand is shaking in Brian’s.  
  
“You’re alright, Rog.” John called his friend from the other side of the room.  
  
“Are you in any pain?” Dr. Hansen asks, placing a hand on Roger’s shoulder to get his attention.   
  
The blonde’s eyes close suddenly. He wrenches his hand out of Brian’s and brings it to his chest, feeling the bandage strapped to his torso.  
  
“It’s burning.” His voice is choked. The heart monitor was speeding up with each frantic breath. “What did you do?” He claws at his chest, face unbelievably pained.   
  
Dr. Hansen silences the machines and pulls out her stethoscope in one movement. “Stay calm, Mr. Taylor.”  
  
“What’s happening?” John manages from the other side of the bed.   
  
A nurse is pushing something into Roger’s IV. Dr. Hansen doesn’t look away from Roger as she works. “Deep breaths, in and out. The nurse has given you something to relax. How are you feeling now?”   
  
Roger was considerably more relaxed from whatever the nurse had flushed his system with. He was breathing easier behind the oxygen mask, his eyes were drooping. “Am I dying?”   
  
“Not if I can help it.” An ultrasound tech moved equipment into the room, as the doctor put on some gloves. “The accident caused major trauma to your heart. We’ve repaired what we can, but there will be some long term effects. I just want you to rest now.”

The monitor comes to life as Dr. Hansen presses the probe to Roger’s chest and side. The familiar _whooshing_ fills the room as they all stare at a live feed of Roger’s struggling heart.   
She turns to Brian and John. “We will be monitoring him closely for the next twelve hours. I’d like to take him for a head CT to make sure everything’s top notch. Confusion is expected, but I’d like to be certain everything is fine. A nurse will be back in a little to take him.”   
  
Once the doctor made her exit, Brian took the chair and John sat on Roger’s bed, watching his friend. He drops a gentle hand onto his leg. Roger is watching them with heavy-lidded eyes, bright and _alive_ despite the black rings surrounding them. John carefully leaned forward and rested his forehead on Roger’s shoulder for a moment, breathing him in.   
  
“Deaky.” Roger snakes his arm around John’s neck, pulling him close.   
  
Later on, they would adamantly deny that there was any crying at this moment. Rock stars don’t dissolve into a puddle of tears for _anything_. They did not take part in any of that.   
  
Under the oxygen mask, Roger smiled slightly as his eyes closed once again in sleep.  
  
But it was okay this time.   
He had survived.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little flashback moment :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I obviously own nothing.

_Freddie was lying flat on his back, staring above him. He had one hand behind his head, the other lowered a cigarette down to his lips. The slight breeze could be heard through the trees in the yard. He was completely mesmerized by the grey clouds, driven in a constant stream above him by the wind._

_It was in those moments that made Freddie forget that the band seemed to be coming apart at the seams and he was falling right along with it._

_“What are you doing?” Paul’s face blocked out the slight sun and Freddie’s view of the sky. He leaned over him with his face scrunched up. Freddie closed his eyes to hide his annoyance, pulling another drag and only opening his eyes to watch the smoke slowly billow over him._

_“Simply thinking, dear.”_

_Paul didn’t say anything more as he crossed his legs to sit down beside him. Freddie lazily lolled his head to the side, watching Paul as he pulled at the grass anxiously._

_“Now, what did the lawn ever do to you?” He teased, noticing the growing pile of grass at Paul’s shoes._

_The other man chuckled, leaning back on his elbows next to the singer. “What are you thinking about?”_

_Freddie felt the lead in his stomach once more at his words. The cigarette was at his lips again, calming and constant. “My mind can be quite complicated at times.”_

_Paul brushed his fingers against Freddie’s arm. “Let me help you.”_

_Freddie didn’t speak. He looked at his watch, a golden and flashy little thing Paul had given him last year, and frowned. “He’ll be here in a moment.”_

_Paul pursed his lips again, face guarded. “Roger?” He scoffed._

_Freddie knew his face had that long-suffering grimace at his reaction. The cigarette touched his lips again. “I know you don’t get on with him, but could you please not start darling? You are both too important to me.”_

_“He’ll only pull you down, Fred.” It was no secret the two loathed each other._

_Freddie stared at him, expression unreadable. “You don’t know him like I do.”_

_There was a roar of an engine and suddenly Roger’s sleek car was rolling to a stop just up the drive. Freddie sat up for a moment and stood to let out the last exhale of his cigarette before flicking it onto the gravel as he walked over to meet the drummer. He leaned on the window, looking into the car and right into Roger’s face. “Took you long enough, dear.”_

_Behind dark glasses, Roger rolled his eyes. His mouth quirked into a small shit-eating grin. “And you are just going to stand there then?”_

_Freddie reached into the car and pressed his palm to the drummer’s face. He laughed as the blond jerked his head out from his reach, swatting at his arm. Freddie tossed a glance back at Paul who was standing near the house, arms crossed. He was trying to be casual but Freddie felt a pang at how tense he looked._

_One thing at a time._

_Freddie sat in the passenger seat as Roger made a little noise in the back of his throat, and Freddie could see him staring at Paul with a look of irritation. He let out a groan and threw the car in reverse. The silence that followed was stuffy. It always seemed to appear when Paul and Roger were in any sort of proximity to one another. Freddie couldn’t bear it for one minute more._

_He reached his arm out to rest it on the back of the driver seat, fingers lightly brushing against the blond’s neck and the baby hairs there. “Roger, sweetheart. Jealousy is an ugly look on you.”_

_The knots in his friend’s neck seemed to soften. His knuckles relaxed around the steering wheel, his leg stopped bouncing._

_“I’m yours for the entire day.” He added._

_Roger let out a loud breath, leaning into Freddie’s touch as his hand shifted to touch the drummer’s cheek. He met Freddie’s eyes earnestly. “I’m trying, mate. I just - ”_

_“Let me interrupt you because if you keep staring at me like that you are going to wreck your car. Watch the road, you twat.”_

_Roger’s jaw tightened under his touch. The drummer brought a hand to his chest in mock offense, tossing a less-than-heated glare in his direction._

_“It’s like you don’t know me at all.” The car sped up as if to prove his point._

_They were back in familiar territory._

_Freddie let out a laugh, feeling it deep in his bones, throwing his head back. “I am precious cargo darling.”_

_“I’m not going to wreck the car. Unless you keep this shit up.” Roger’s eyes flashed, but Freddie knew he was playing with him._

_“Taking the piss. Where are we going, anyway?” Freddie asked, hanging a hand out the window to feel the rush of air in his fingers._

_“Wherever you want, Fred. I just needed to see you.” The car swerved effortlessly between traffic, heading towards the city limits._

_“Let’s go somewhere quiet.” He desperately needed quiet. Freddie pulled on his own pair of sunglasses, resting his head back against the seat. He was so very tired, bone weary. He was tired of arguing._

_The wheels of the car crunched over the loose gravel as Roger pulled off the winding road. Up here, they could overlook the entire city in peace. In the early days of Queen, this was a spot they would come for a respite. The car stopped at top, Roger pulling the key out of the ignition._

_“Forgot how clear it is out here.” Roger murmured, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel lightly._

_Freddie hummed in response. His hands found the pack of cigarettes and lighter he knew Roger had stashed away in the gearbox. “It’s nice.” He whispered as he inhaled the smoke, eyes closing for a moment in contentment._

_“Makes me think of the good ol’ days.” Roger said, getting out of the car and leaned against the hood. He turned and watched as Freddie slammed his own door and joined him. Roger’s arms were tightly crossed on his chest, fingers absently tapping against his arm as he looked over the edge._

_“Those days are still ahead, my dear.” Freddie nudged the blond, offering the cigarette to his friend._

_Roger said nothing. He met Freddie’s eyes around the glasses and slowly leaned forward, taking a drag straight from Freddie’s outstretched hand. Freddie felt a rush in his gut when Roger’s lips lightly brushed his fingers._ _He was suddenly and tragically aware of how close they were, the warmth of Roger’s side pressed against his, Roger’s blonde hair flying in the breeze, Roger’s rough hands now resting against the car._

_Freddie inhaled sharply, busying himself with the hem of his jacket to calm his nerves. The cigarette shook in his hand slightly._

_Why couldn’t things be this way all the time? It had only gotten more complicated._

_And as usual, Roger broke the spell._

_“I’m not jealous, by the way.” He began, taking the sunglasses from his face and pulling Freddie back to his comment in the car._

_And Freddie couldn’t stop his treacherous mind from thinking: yes you are, and it’s because we belong together._

_But that would never happen._

_“So what’s going on, Fred?” Roger shifted his body so he was facing Freddie, open and reassuring._

_It was about damn time._

_“What do you mean?” He took his own sunglasses off and placed them on the hood behind them, just to get a better look at that golden face._

_Roger dropped a hand on his neck, kneading the skin there. “You’re different.”_

_Freddie laughed humorlessly. “Am I?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Freddie looked down. “_ We’re _different.” He gestured between them and then to the vague direction of John and Brian, his voice growing loud as he went. “Queen is different. Everything is changing.”_

_Roger lifted his hand from Freddie’s back and Freddie felt ice replace it. He looked over at the drummer. Roger was staring straight ahead with a pained expression. Freddie watched his callused hands clench and unclench in his lap._

_“And that’s entirely my fault?” Roger’s tone was sharp._

_Freddie nervously pulled his lips over his teeth, breathing through his nose. “I didn’t say that.” His eyes were suddenly, and embarrassingly, burning. He dropped the finished cigarette to the gravel, pressing it into the dirt with his shoe._

_“Then what are you saying?” Roger was deflating, eyes softening the longer Freddie was silent._

_“I’m being pulled apart, Rog.” The burning overflowed, and he jerked his head to the side to hide the fact. His hands frantically wiped the tears as he felt Roger move closer to him. Freddie felt Roger pull him in close, an arm around his shoulder. Freddie dropped his head into his hands, finally letting go of his sorrows._

_“Let me help you.” Roger’s voice was calm, his breathing hitching slightly._

_That phrase echoed in Freddie’s mind, taking him back to earlier when Paul had uttered that exact thing. However, when Roger said it, it felt like a glass of water he was most desperate to take in. He didn’t realize how parched he’d been and he couldn’t speak._

_“I actually owe you an apology, Freddie.” Roger’s hand was trailing up and down Freddie’s arm as they sat, listening to the world around them. It was grounding. Freddie took a shaky breath as he felt Roger’s voice vibrating within his chest as he leaned against the drummer.“That day you got your house, when I came over to see you? I was afraid. I knew things were changing, with Queen, with_ us _, and I was running. I ran. I should’ve stayed.” It all came pouring out, and for Roger who had a penchant for using fists over words, this was big._

_And it wouldn't fix everything. But it was a start._

_Freddie felt Roger’s cheek against the top of his head. “I was wrong. I’m sorry, mate.” The drummer sniffed, bringing his own hand somewhere above Freddie’s head. “But with Prenter breathing down my neck everytime we are together, I can’t stay. He’s pulling you down, Fred.”_

_Freddie blinked, the overwhelming despair suddenly shut off like a switch. He shoved the blonde away irritably and stalked over to the edge of the lookout, running a hand through his hair as he went. “I won’t hear another word against Paul.”_

_“Freddie.”_

_“No. I’m_ so _tired of this. It’s always been this way, and I’m done.”_

_“Are you joking?” Roger was next to him, and he felt his hand gripping his arm. Freddie stared down at it. “It’s always been you and me_ _. The band. You can’t possibly say he’s been part of_ us _this whole time.”_

_“And yet, until this very moment, he’s the only one who bothered to notice something was going on. I’m sorry that’s been so unbearable to you.” And there it was._

_He pulled his arm out of the drummer’s grasp. Paul was right. The constant fight was pulling him down._

_A flightless bird, that had forgotten what it felt like to be free. He needed to spread his wings._

_Roger was pacing behind him, back and forth. He ran his hand through his hair, grabbing and pulling it so it stuck up slightly._

_Freddie watched him, pretending he didn’t care about how much that must have hurt. But he’d been hurt too. And for far too long. Something had to give, and this was only the beginning he feared. Some start from earlier, he thought bitterly._

_“No, no. That’s not true. How can you say that?” Back and forth._

_Freddie’s mouth opened, not able to hold back his words anymore. “It is. You said it yourself. The apology is nice, darling, but it doesn’t really change anything.”_

_When Roger finally stopped pacing, his hands were shaking. Freddie glanced down at his watch. It was going to be dark soon. The anger was gone as suddenly as it appeared, leaving him exhausted and weary._

_“Why don’t we sit down, Rog.” Freddie carefully guided his friend back to the parked car, pulling him into the back seat and closing the doors behind them, ears ringing with the sudden silence._

_Roger had a hand pressed against his chest. He was breathing hard, from anger or something else - Freddie didn’t know. Blue eyes were wide as he leaned back against the headrest._

_After a moment, those blue eyes flicked over to Freddie. “Can I make this right?” He rasped, all traces of anger completely evaporated._

_And, as usual, Freddie couldn't stay mad at Roger once those eyes met his own. Blue and bright and pleading._

_“I just need time, my dear. But you can do one thing for me in the meantime.” He shifted forward slightly so that their legs, folded on the seat, were touching. “Stop running away. I’m going to need you.”_

_Roger leaned into his space, filling it with the spice of cologne and cigarettes and that_ something _that was completely Roger. He rested his forehead against Freddie’s chest, hands brushing against Freddie’s hip as he did. Freddie’s hand found his hair, lightly brushing his fingers through it, smelling the sunshine._

_“You’re my best mate, Fred. Nothing will ever change that.” It was so quiet Freddie almost didn’t hear._

_Freddie dipped his head down so that his forehead was resting against Roger’s, pushing the blonde back as he did. They were completely frozen in time for that one, perfect moment. “I do have a question for you.” He began, quietly._

_Roger’s eyes flicked open again._

_“Did you bring me all the way up here to watch the sunset? Like a bloody date?” He snarked, laughter bubbling up and it felt so good. “Roger, darling, you really shouldn’t have.”_

_Roger shoved him away and that caused him to laugh even harder. A full body laugh. He watched the flush start in Roger’s chest and work it’s way up his face._

_“Bite me, Fred.” But there was no sting to it. Roger pulled Fred back to him and the pair sat and watched as the sun finally broke through the last of the clouds for one breathtaking moment before disappearing. “I’ve long since stopped trying to seduce the great Freddie Mercury.”_

_If only you knew, dear._

* * *

Freddie was lying flat on his back, staring above him. He had one hand behind his head, the other lowered a cigarette down to his lips. 

There was no chance of sleep tonight, and it wasn’t because the light from the Munich nightlife streamed in through his window, lights dancing across the ceiling every time a car passed the house. Or the fact that Paul was away, and Freddie couldn’t get the nagging relief out of his mind that he was gone. He would never admit that.

He desperately needed quiet. He needed to think. 

He needed _him._

_Don’t even go there_.

And it was in these moments that Freddie remembered that the band had come apart at the seams and he had fallen right along with it. And he’d done it to himself. 

_No looking back. Only forward._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry to keep you all waiting! I've been waiting for some inspiration myself and it finally hit! I'm actually really proud of this boy.
> 
> I wanted to show the friendship between Freddie and Roger as I imagined it for this story, this takes place a little ways before Freddie signs the deal with CBS. I think it must have been difficult for Freddie to take off on his own, and the movie didn't give us enough angst leading up to it (at least the type of angst I think could've been there between our drummer and singer). 
> 
> This isn't a slash fic - but it's there if you squint. I think this story works better without it. That's why I've purposely left out mention of "wives and children" in chapter 2 for everyone. Imagine as you please.  
> Anyway. Next chapter will be back to business.
> 
> Drop me a comment. Say hi. I always, eventually, will get around to responding :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing :)

The oxygen mask was a terrible thing, resting a little too close to that tender spot under his eye and reaching down to cover his mouth. The _whooshing_ sound when he breathed in almost drowned out the unsteady, but incessant, beeping of some machine nearby. That one seemed to sound an alarm most often, bringing strangers flooding to his bedside. 

And when they would ask him questions, it was easier to pretend he didn’t hear them over the sound of the mask rather than him admitting to having no bloody idea what they were going on about. 

Roger stared at the ceiling above him, grateful to someone who thought to dim the fluorescent lights. It wasn’t like he really needed to see anything in here, and his head was pounding. But looking up brought to his attention the fact that there was a slight hissing of air flowing out from under the oxygen mask and into his eyes.

When he tilted his head back down, the mask settled more steadily on his face, blissfully cutting off the wind into his eyes. That’s when he noticed the tubes crossing his body. The wires attached to his skin. Something thick and white holding his chest together. 

Roger felt like he was moving in slow motion. Trapped in an out of body experience. And through foggy vision he could see his left hand moving towards his chest, fingers scratching at the white bandage down his front. It tugged painfully, but he _needed_ to see, when suddenly he felt something dragging his hand back down. Startled he glanced up, meeting Brian’s slightly disappointed features, curls like a halo around his head. He patted Roger’s hand, mindful of the IV. 

_When did he get here?_

His attention was pulled towards a sound near his ear, and his friend’s face was forgotten once more. His eyes flicked up to meet a woman he didn’t recognize, reaching towards his face determinedly. He felt his body flinch away violently, that damned machine nearby by shrieking as he did. His chest constricted, something sharp pinching from inside leaving him breathless. 

“You’re alright, mate. She’s just taking a look at your stitches, remember?” A calm voice broke through the haze of sudden dizziness. He felt something brush across his knuckles, and was once again surprised to see Brian sitting on a stiff seat to his left.

_No, I don’t remember._

The nurse hummed on his right, pulling his meager attention back to her. She was a little too close to comfort. He eyed her nervously as she pulled on some gloves with a snap. Roger could barely make out a tray of things sitting in front of them both.

He could feel her hands above his eye, on his temple, over his ear, down his cheek. “These can certainly come out today, dear.” She had a feather light touch, and he wasn’t sure why that was so surprising to him. “That scar actually frames your face quite nicely, on the bright side.” The only other sound in the room was the steady snipping of surgical scissors as she removed the stitches.

Roger didn’t know what to say, so he just didn’t. He felt his eyes closing, listening to the steady tone of the machines and the white noise of conversation around him.

Something cold touches his chest and the bed moved beneath him so he was closer to sitting rather than lying flat. Roger dragged his eyes open. The light slanted a bit more dramatically from a window somewhere off to his side, the only indicator that some time had passed. Black spots flooded his vision for a moment as he was propped up.

The nurse was leaning over him, listening to his heart. No, she was someone different.

_A flash of kind eyes above him, lights burning his vision, asking him over and over what his name was, his chest was on fire…_

“How long will he need that mask for, doctor?” John’s quiet voice chimed in from near the window, breaking him free from _whatever that was._

Roger druggedly blinked in his direction, smiling under the mask and pleasantly surprised to see Deaky here too.

_Everything was okay if John and Brian were here._

The nurse - _no, John said doctor_ \- tilted her head to the side before answering. “Right now he will have to wear a mask until his levels improve. But I anticipate him recovering enough in the next day or so to get him up and about.” Roger felt a cool hand grip his neck from behind and gently ease his body forward as a pillow was stuffed behind his back in the same movement. 

A second pillow was pressed to his chest. The pressure eased with it there, he noticed. The fire was under control and almost without realizing it he found himself tapping out a beat on it’s soft surface to distract himself, trying to play along to the loudest of the machines.

“Up and about? Do you mean walking?” 

“What about his heart?”

Their questions snapped Roger into complete awareness. He suddenly felt more awake than he ever had before, or at least that he remembered. He squinted to where John’s voice had come from, far to his right.

“Getting him sitting in that chair, standing, or even walking from one end of the room to the other will only help. His heart is doing _okay_ ,” she dragged out the word, her hand twitching in a _so-so_ motion. “But we are monitoring it closely. We wouldn’t have him try walking if it were terribly dangerous.” She lightly tapped Roger’s arm as she spoke. “How are you feeling sitting up, Mr. Taylor?”

“What?” He rasped. 

_Was that his voice?_

Dr. Hansen waited calmly, despite the suspicious stare she was getting from the drummer. It’s clear Roger doesn’t remember her, which was noteworthy but not concerning yet as it had only been a day since he’d woken up. “How do you feel?”

“Sore. A little dizzy.”

She nodded, stepping away to make a note in his chart. “Your blood pressure has been a bit all over the place. I’ll have the nurse give you something to help, but in the meantime, try and get some rest. Your heart is working overtime right now.”

“Thank you.” John appeared at the foot of Roger’s bed, eyes shining with gratitude. “You’ve been wonderful in all this.” He reached out to shake the doctor’s hand kindly.

When she made her exit, John perched himself on Roger’s bed, studying his friend. He pulled Roger’s good hand into his own, fingers gripping into a lazy thumb war. The blonde’s face brightened considerably. “What do you think of all this, Blondie?”

Roger gave a one shoulder shrug. “Everything is so foggy.” He began, eyes getting a faraway look in them. “And I’m just _so_ damn tired.”

“Mate. You’ve been asleep for twelve days. Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Brian snarked, standing from the chair by the bed and crossing the room, tidying things as he went.

_What_?

“Twelve days? Are you joking?”

A gentle knock on the door frame instantly took the band’s attention.

Brian smiled at whoever entered, stopping mid-sentence in his response to the blonde. John stilled on Roger’s bed, ending the little game in trade for just resting one hand on Roger’s leg.

Roger shifted his head on the pillow, squinting to try to see the woman’s face. His already terrible eyesight had gone to shit in the accident. 

“Wish I were. All that beauty sleep didn’t do your hair much good, either.” Brian continued, giving his friend a grin. It felt good to tease. Brian then stood and pulled a pretty woman into a fierce hug. “So good to see you, Mary.”

Roger knit his brow, reaching a hand up to brush against his uneven hair and frowning as he did. His bruised eyes narrowed. “You all right?” John tapped his hand against Roger’s leg to get his attention.

The blonde blinked up at him, startled. “Who is that?”

Brian and Mary’s conversation came to a sudden halt at his words. Mary looked at John with uncertainty, who’s own heart had stopped. 

_It's happening again._

Roger studied her, then looked to John before giving her a twitch of a smile. He closed his eyes, suddenly, as if trying to recall something. His eyebrows pulled together, moving the now visible, red scar.

“We told you earlier that Mary would be stopping by.” Brian began, carefully. “Do you remember that?”

Roger gripped the bed handle tightly. The heart monitor was making itself known. 

He said nothing, but they knew he didn’t remember. 

Almost immediately after waking up Roger had been struggling, and only after several repetitions had he been able to understand why he was even in hospital. He’d asked for Mary. He’d asked for _Freddie._

As suddenly as it appeared, his temper was gone. Roger gave her an apologetic smile, recognition finally settling on his face. “Mary.” His eyes were sharp. 

“It’s quite alright.” Mary approached the bed and cupped his cheek affectionately. 

The drummer grimaced in disappointment. “It’s not.” His eyes slipped closed, his body relaxing under her touch. The moment following was quiet. Awkward. Mary looked to the other band members questioningly, then sat in the recliner next to his bed. She squeezed his arm. Blue eyes snapped open, confusion evident in them. “When did you get here?” He whispered, sleepily.

John suddenly was off the bed, pacing towards the window with his hands in his hair. Brian sunk into the window bench and leaned forward, arms resting on his legs. 

_This was too much._

Mary smiled sadly. “Just now. I heard you finally decided to wake up.”

The blonde gave a breathless chuckle. “It’s a bloody shame that I did.” He gestured to his chest with his good hand, dragging the pillow to the side to show her the bandage peeking out his hospital gown. “It all hurts like a bitch.”

Mary laughed, settling the pillow back on his torso for him. “Rest now, sunshine boy. I’m glad you’re back.” She tenderly brushed a blonde curl back from his face, watching as his eyes grew heavy.

“Where’s Freddie?” 

Mary almost didn’t catch his question, meant only for her. Tears threatened to overwhelm her at that moment. She lightly touched his arm. “He couldn’t come.” _Wouldn’t_. 

That was all she could manage. She couldn’t _bear_ to tell him. Not yet.

He nodded slowly, seemingly satisfied with her answer nonetheless. His eyes closed almost instantly after that, face relaxing completely.

She caught eyes with Brian. The guitarist looked stricken. “So, what does this mean?” She whispered.

“I don’t know what this means.” 

John was still pacing. “Dr. Hansen mentioned some confusion - ”

“But this doesn’t sit right.” 

John stopped in his pacing to sit next to Brian on the window bench.

Brian shrugged, but Mary could tell he was barely holding it together. She took a breath. “Does he remember what happened?”

“About the accident? No. He doesn’t.” John flicked his hands.

“Dr. Hansen gave us the results of the CT this morning.” Brian began. “We know he’s suffering from a bit of retrograde amnesia, as he doesn’t remember the accident at all. His long-term memory seems to be intact, but a little foggy. He’s just having a hard time remembering anything new since waking up.”

Mary nodded, rubbing light circles on Roger’s wrist as he slept. “It’ll just take time, I think. Do they know how long it’ll last?”

“There’s no way to tell.” John shrugged. “It’s only been one day, however. And I’ve noticed it’s only bad when he’s worn out.” John was watching Brian as the conversation went on. The guitar player seemed to sink into himself, the weight of everything pressing down on him. 

_We need to remain positive_.

“Does he remember what happened?” Mary probed, and they knew she wasn't talking about the accident this time.

Brian hesitated, pain flashing across his eyes. “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slooooooooooooooow and steady wins the race right?
> 
> also, I'd like to thank COVID-19 for giving me some free time this week. thanks bb.
> 
> Review and say hi!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing :)
> 
> Also, I'm looking for something new. Anyone have any BoRhap prompts they want to send my way??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY.
> 
> It's been so many days. This is not much, but I hope you enjoy it!

This hospital wing was quiet. John walked down the hall and cocked his head, hoping to hear anything as he left the elevator. The patient wing of the hospital was less busy than the ICU. A few nurses were sitting behind a desk, chatting and relaxed. There were no frantic families waiting for news, no doctors running at each machine alarm. 

John paused in the hallway, just a few doors shy of Roger’s room. It was a rare day, bright and sunny, and he basked in the warmth streaming through the window for a moment, collecting his thoughts. 

It was nice.

And, at the same time, it was unnerving. 

Roger had been moved from the intensive care unit into a regular patient room over the weekend. No more oxygen mask, just a nasal cannula. 

“Good?”

John was dragged from his mind at the sound of Brian’s question. But it wasn’t directed at him.

“Great, actually.” Roger’s voice was clearer than he’d ever heard it. _At least, how it’s been normally._

“Hey,” John popped his head in, a smile stretching across his face. “Looks like someone got a haircut.” The bass player shoved his hands in his pockets as he hesitated in the doorway, taking in the sight before him. 

Roger’s lips were wrapped around a straw with a small grin. At John’s appearance, he set the water cup on the tray next to his bed. He was propped up on the bed, sitting taller, looking _healthier_. The drummer dragged a hand through his now short hair - courtesy of Mary - giving a scoff. He rolled his eyes, and John was careful not to make it look like he was eyeing him too obviously.

Roger screwed his eyes shut, hand freezing behind his neck. “Yeah, the um - ” he flicked his fingers, deep in thought. “The blonde. She did it the other day.” He reached for his water again, taking another sip to avoid eye contact.

John caught eyes with Brain across the room. “The blonde?” While the drummer’s memory had drastically improved since those first devastating days, he still needed a push every now and then. 

“What blonde? A nurse? That’s nice of them.” 

Roger looked over to Brian, raising a scarred eyebrow. “You know who I mean.” He huffed, waving his good hand at how obvious it was, ice rattling in the cup as he did so. “She’s not a nurse. She was here earlier? You know, Fred’s girl. I just can’t quite get her name.”

“Mary? I thought her hair seemed more red.”

John couldn’t help himself. “Rog. Have your eyes always been this bad?” He crossed the room. “Scoot.”

Roger glared as John sat himself on the bed, the blonde stubbornly refusing to move. “Piss off. Both of you.”

“Ah, come on mate. You know we’re joking.” Brian called from his place at the window bench, his grin wide but careful.

Roger was suddenly very interested in the ice chips. He poured a few in his mouth to avoid looking at John and Brian.

“Well, I think it looks terrible.” John shuddered as he spoke, his tone playful but sarcastically tragic at the same time. Like it was such a _hardship_ to even look at his friend now. He reached towards Roger. “Come here.”

John’s gentle hands brushed against the top of Roger's head, mindful of the still tender, raised scars. His fingers took in the shaved sides, down to the skin to match the right side. Mary had done a knockout job, leaving the top, and down the back a ways, just long enough to slightly curl. It actually suited him quite nicely.

Blue eyes snapped to his, the darkness that was in them a moment ago suddenly gone. “I still look better than you Deaky.” He snarked, but his eyes were playful. 

Brian let out a loud laugh at John’s dismayed face.

“Fred won’t be able to keep his hands off.” Roger winked, grinning wolfishly at the thought. The drummer flopped his head back on the pillows, eyes shutting contentedly.

Now Brian’s face echoed John’s despair. The guitarist tried to swallow around the lump suddenly lodged in his throat. He looked at John who had recovered quicker than he. John met his eyes quickly and nodded. Brian looked heavenward. 

_How was it that they were going to have to relive this moment a second time?_

In a rare moment to themselves, a few days ago, they had planned out what they were going to tell Roger about the whole _Queen_ situation. They were going to have to tell him about _Freddie_. They couldn’t bear to keep it from him any longer, but they also wanted him to be healthy enough to take the shock. He hadn’t done so well the first time around. But they couldn’t keep dodging Roger’s questions about their frontman.

“Rog.”

The blonde watched him with one of his heavy looks. “Hmm?” Roger’s eyes grew sharp as he took in the sudden tension around him. He shifted in uncertainty on the bed.

John was stock still on the bed, facing the drummer. “What do you remember from the day of your accident?” He began calmly.

Roger blinked, surprised at the turn in conversation. He leaned his head back, eyes searching the ceiling above him. They watched as he casually shoved one hand through the open collar of his hospital gown, scratching at the bandage running down his sternum. And, after what seemed like an eternity, he said, “I don’t even remember getting into my car.”

John hummed in response, glancing at Brian for help.

“You don’t remember being at Fred’s? We had a band meeting that morning.” Brian’s leg was jumping.

“Did we?” Roger pursed his lips thoughtfully, but they could tell he was losing interest.

“Yes. MTV didn’t like our video. Do you remember that?”

Roger was quiet for a moment, eyes unfocused and faraway. Then he let out a small chuckle, hand rubbing his chest in response. “Drag was _just_ as much his idea as it was mine. Where is he anyway?”

_Here it was._

“That’s the thing, mate. Fred’s not coming.”

Roger stared at them. “Not coming? What do you mean?”

John was suddenly gripping his hand tightly. It wasn’t comforting, it was suffocating.

“Queen is done.” Brian broke in, standing behind John at the foot of the bed. “Fred’s left.” 

John glanced at the guitarist, exasperated. _Don’t sugarcoat it, Bri._

“Bull _shit_.” Roger yanked his hand out of John’s reach, sending a harsh glare at his friends. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m serious - ”

“Tell me,” Roger’s voice was low. His eyes were screwed shut. “Is he with Paul?”

“He’s ‘spreading his wings’. We haven’t heard from him.”

Roger was quiet. He was shaking and all the sun in his complexion that he'd gained since waking up was gone again.

John shifted on the bed, turning to look at Brian. Behind him, the guitarist had leaned forward, arms bracing against the railing on the foot of the bed. The only sound was the heart monitor, something they had grown so accustomed to that they barely noticed it. They heard it now.

Brian glanced at John, after another long moment of silence. 

Roger’s voice broke the tension, low and raspy. “I need a minute. Please.”

John carefully reached for his hand again. “Rog.”

“Get out.” Roger suddenly shouted. His eyes flashed dangerously. The heart monitor screamed simultaneously, matching Roger’s labored breathing. “Go.”

John held his hands up in surrender, sliding off the hospital bed. Brian beat him out into the hallway, barely a glance behind him. As John passed through the doorway, he pretended not to notice how Roger’s face pinched, unbelievably pained. He pretended not to see the tears as they streamed down his face. He didn’t hear a terrible groan, as the wound of losing their friend was ripped open a second time.

* * *

_“Can’t you sit somewhere else? I’m not actually dying.” He’s pretty sure he’s not. And as much as he tried to act like he was annoyed, he needed Freddie close more than he was willing to admit. And the singer knew it._

_Freddie relaxed against his left side, warmth spreading from him as he pressed into Roger’s hip. “Don’t talk about dying. I simply can’t bear it, darling.” He said. “Didn’t you miss me?”_

_He felt himself blushing, but scoffed anyway. “How can I miss you? You won’t leave me the hell alone.”_

_They stayed like that. There was no Brian, no John, and no doctors. Freddie’s hand found his like it the most natural thing in the world, his thumb trailing over the veins on his hand and the calluses on his palm, mindful of the IV._

_Roger turned to look at him, mind suddenly as foggy as his vision. “How are you here?”_

_“Because you need me.” Freddie’s voice was soft. “Why are you crying, dear?”_

_He couldn’t stop the tears, because the dam had burst. The walls that had been holding strong for so long crumbled. Roger couldn’t say why._

_But he now_ knew _he was dreaming._

When Roger opened his eyes he angrily scrubbed away the tears, ignoring the ache of the scars. His vision only cleared slightly. It never seemed to clear past this point anymore. But his mind was clearer than ever. He felt a swell of something in his chest, a feeling of icy determination. He had to get out of here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a brief mental health hiatus, I'm back! I'm grateful to all of you for your support! 
> 
> Your kudos and comments are so amazing and motivated me to write several chappies of this story this week! I promise to keep a regular updating schedule, but please harass me if I'm taking too long!
> 
> Love you all! Please review :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to loujentch for keeping me motivated! This chapter is for you, darling :)

He knew it was late even though he could barely make out the clock on the opposite wall. The blinds had long been closed, the artificial light from street lamps filtering in dully. His chest was tight and heavy, a steady ache coming in predictable waves as he breathed. He didn’t know when that feeling had become normal for him.

Now that John and Brian had left for the evening, each wave also brought along with it the sting of realization. Everything was different.

_ Fred left. _

And any confidence he’d mustered up this afternoon had disappeared with the sun, replaced with a burning that rivaled that ever present twinge in his middle. 

Roger pressed his head into the pillow, closing his eyes at the mounting frustration. The thin blanket his nurse had given him-  _ or had it been Fred's girl? - _ was suffocating, trapping his legs against the bed. It pressed tightly against his stomach. He couldn’t breathe. 

_ He can’t breathe. _

Roger’s left hand was feeling the side of the mattress, searching for the edge of the blanket frantically. Ripping the blanket off, Roger stared at his body in poorly hidden disgust, watching as goosebumps appeared on his exposed legs. But now he could breathe. 

Brian had said he’d slept for twelve days, but he hadn’t fully understood the toll that would take on his physique. As a drummer, he’d always been in great shape. But now, he was skinny - kneecaps standing out, tan long gone. 

_ Sick _ .

Roger brought his hand to his side, feeling the slightly pronounced ridges of his ribs, but his hand didn’t stay there long. The entire right side was tender, bruises still on the mend. His hand, the one not bound in a cast, looked thin. Looked  _ soft. _ Like the callouses he’d built up over the years drumming had been erased. He could only imagine what his face looked like.

And suddenly the need to see overwhelmed him. 

The little voice at the back of his mind was warning him against leaving the bed without help, but  _ screw that very much, I think.  _ Roger eased his legs over the side, holding his breath when a wave of dizziness blackened his sight for a moment. Using his good hand, he pushed himself so he was sitting completely upright. Pins and needles filled his feet as they swung off the edge of the bed, but the tile felt cool through his socks. 

Dully, he could hear one of the machines protesting behind him. He pulled in a breath through his teeth, feeling his thumping heart slow the longer he paused. 

_ Not bad. _

His hospital room wasn’t terribly big, even for a private room. The bed took most of the space, a horrid plastic recliner that Brian  _ insisted _ was the most comfortable thing next to the bed, and a large window opening out into the parking lot with another plastic cushion across the width of it. 

The wide open space was just as suffocating as his blanket tonight. 

Roger’s knees were shaking, arm burning with the kind of pain that only came during a drum solo. But this wasn’t a concert. He wasn’t on the drum risers. He was trying to stand up off the  _ bloody _ bed. He was in frightful shape. If only Fred could see him now. 

_ Stop. Don’t think about him. _

Instead of melting into a puddle of despair like he wanted to at the thought of his friend ( _ he’s a rock star, dammit. No more tears) _ , Roger buries those feelings under the mounting rage that was always there, and now slowly building. He just had to get to the bathroom right across the room. Just a couple steps, he could do this.

Gripping the bed railing, Roger forced his weary body to a standing position. His head spun for only a moment.

_ Not so bad. _

Roger took his first shaky steps towards the bathroom. He couldn’t remember if he’d tried walking before, and from how weak he felt this could be the first time. Feeling a sharp tug on his hand, his mind was brought back to the IV. The oxygen meter clipped to his finger. The electrodes taped to his chest. The cannula draped around his face. 

_ What the hell?  _

The voice in the back of his mind was screaming at him to stop as he pulled the tubes and needles from his body. Part of him knew that he shouldn’t be doing this, but he couldn’t recall the reason why. He just felt a desperation to be free, to be out, to be _ alone _ . The machine alarms faded into the background as he stared straight ahead, steadily ignoring the growing pinch on the left side of his chest.

The bathroom light flickered on automatically as he entered, harsh and fluorescent. He gripped the door knob behind him and slammed the door closed and locked it on autopilot, flinching slightly as the sound pounded on his headache. He needed quiet. He needed to think. He needed to  _ see _ . Roger struggled to hold himself steady on the sink with his left hand -  _ had it always been this numb? -  _ and took a deep breath as he finally saw himself in the mirror.

He couldn’t breathe.

He knew about the scars. Brian and John mentioned them. His doctor -  _ what was her name? -  _ reminded him to not scratch at them. But seeing them himself was shocking, and they only added to his haggard appearance.

They started above his right ear, where his hair had been shaved down to his skin. Raised and slightly red, it stretched to cut through the far side of his eyebrow. The second was smaller. It framed his eye, coming to a stop just on his cheek bone. They only made his eyes look more sunken in, more dull, the bruises on his eyes standing out. 

His hair was _gone_. Long, golden tresses gone without his knowing. Something pooled in his gut. He didn’t even look like himself, a stranger staring back at him with dead eyes. A dead man walking.

_ It was bull shit.  _

He didn’t even feel it when the mirror suddenly smashed under his fist, but he should because his hand was bleeding. He didn’t feel himself throwing the plastic tray of lotions across the little room. He didn’t remember when the straps of his cast had ripped, the entire thing being torn off and hurtled away from him. Water pooled around his feet, the shower pouring a constant stream of cold into him. Something roared in his ears, blocking out all rational thought. The sound was deafening, gaining intensity with each beat of his heart, and when he tried to suck in a breath he realized he’d been screaming. 

Roger was sitting under a stream of water, both hands pressed to his eyes. His right arm was on fire, his left completely numb. He didn’t remember how he got here, and that scared the hell out of him. And he didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, soaked and miserable and numb. 

He dropped his hands so they were hugging his knees, trying to curl into himself to give relief to the agonizing pain pulsing from his chest. As suddenly as the rage had overwhelmed him, it was gone. At least that was familiar. He knew he had a penchant for flying off the handle and then recovering his senses at an exhausting pace. But this time it left him breathless. 

Literally. 

His heart was racing, an unsteady pounding that echoed the tiled bathroom. His left hand curled up around his neck, head finding a place on his knees while his torso protested. Why did his chest hurt so much? The pounding was too much. It had to stop. It had to.

“It’s shit!” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper over the water and his racing heart. 

Something exploded to his left, the bathroom door nearly coming off its hinges. Cool hands were touching his face, his arms, his legs, asking questions he couldn’t understand. He flinched away, pushing out weakly. Dizziness suddenly engulfed him, he feared he was going to be sick. He went limp, too embarrassed to face what was coming. He felt his body being lifted into something soft, a light flashing across his vision. Hands scratched at his arm, taping an IV into place, and that dreaded oxygen mask was pouring air into his eyes. He screwed his eyes shut, neck and face burning in shame. His chest was being crushed.

_ Why was this happening? _

“We’ve got you, Mr. Taylor.” Faces hovered above him, just outside his vision. His chest squeezed painfully, cutting off any response he tried to give. 

Dark spots swam across his vision, and through the tunnel he heard the voice once more.

“We’ve got you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help myself.
> 
> I'm on instagram! @_thewildflowerchild (and Tumblr very soon). I'd love to chat! Harass me to update sooner :)
> 
> PS: thinking of starting a project on instagram that will go with this story, anyone interested in fanart?? lmk


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing :)

Brian sat at the kitchen table, watching the steam from his morning tea rise lazily from the cup. Rain patted lightly on the window to his left, and Brian was glad for it. For the distraction it provided. Things had not gone as expected yesterday, however Brian couldn’t help but feel relief. Relief that everything was out in the open. Relief that he could rely on  _ them  _ taking care of Roger. Brian knew he was selfish, but he didn’t think he could handle another minute. His nerves were too frayed. 

He watched the rain drizzling into the garden, savoring the quiet of the morning. There hadn’t been many mornings like this. Not since the accident. Not since Freddie signed with CBS. Not since Queen, really.

Tires squealed up his driveway suddenly, muddy water splashing onto the porch. Brian set his tea down abruptly, disturbed, as John slammed the car door and raced up the steps almost in the same movement. His face was determined. It was only when John rang that Brian snapped himself out of the trance he’d been trapped in. John stepped into the hallway, dripping onto the rug. He shook his head, dislodging any droplets from his hair.

“Alright, John? What’s all this about?” Brian began, watching his friend warily.

“We’ve got to go. Now.” John stared at him, pleading, and Brian’s heart dropped. John pushed past his stunned friend to nip his coat off the rack and push it into Brian’s frozen hands.

“Has something happened?” The guitarist locked the door behind them. John didn’t respond until they were both belted in and the car was backing out the driveway.

“I got a call this morning. He’s been taken to surgery.”

Brian took a moment to process, and the only brilliant thing he could think to ask was, “Why did they call you?”

John threw him a funny look. “Does it matter?” His knuckles were tight on the wheel.

“No. No, sorry.” Brian blinked, turning to watch the rain slide off his window. “Wasn’t he on schedule for surgery tomorrow? For his arm?” He couldn’t think straight. What was John going on about?

“It’s not for his arm. Something happened last night. The doc said she’d explain in person.”

The hospital loomed on their right, dark clouds overhead making it even more ominous. The hospital loomed over the parking lot as John pulled into a spot. The pair sat in silence for a moment.  “Better get on with it then?” John began, but he still didn’t move. 

Brian hummed. “Just another day in paradise.” He reached over to pat John’s arm. “Let’s go, Deaky.” 

They walked down the hall, sterile lights burning into them. One of the lights let off a high pitched hum as they passed, flickering annoyingly. Or was that lightning? It didn’t bode well.

A man in scrubs and a medical coat was standing at the nurses station when they rounded the corner. He was tall, but young. Seemingly too young to be a doctor. When he saw them, he stepped forward to shake John’s hand. “John Deacon?”

Brian and John shared a look, steeling themselves for what was sure to follow.

“I’m Dr. Hammond. I’m the surgical intern on Mr. Taylor’s case.”

“And do you work with Dr. Hansen?” Brian broke in, eyeing the new face curiously.

“Yes. I was here overnight. We called Dr. Hansen in for the surgery.”

“Is he out of surgery?” John’s voice was very calm, controlled. Brian gravitated towards it.

The doctor shook his head. “I’d actually just stepped out to phone you with an update.”

“So what happened? When we left, he seemed,” Brian shrugged, looking to John desperately.

“You didn’t notice anything unusual?” Dr. Hammond asked.

“He was upset. That was our fault I suppose.” John’s face was hard.

The doctor nodded, the straps of his facemask swaying as he did. Before he could respond, Brian couldn’t help himself. “What happened last night, doctor?”

“Early this morning, Mr. Taylor left his bed. He removed his IVs, his oxygen, medications, everything.” 

“He what?” Brian’s knees felt weak.

“When we found him, he’d locked himself in the bathroom. He was in a shock. It looked like he’d had some sort of fit, as the mirror was shattered and much of the room was destroyed.” 

John couldn’t help it. He let out a snort at the doctor’s words, and he didn’t know if it was due to stress or if he had lost his mind. “He had a bit of a tantrum, did he? Long time coming, I think.” 

Brian’s stricken look halted John’s brief amusement. John cleared his throat. “Is he all right?”

Dr. Hammond’s pager suddenly came to life. He glanced down at it, grimacing slightly. “I’m terribly sorry. I’m needed back in there. If you would just wait in his room, someone will be with you shortly.” The doctor was apologetic, giving them a warm smile as he turned down the hall. 

“He’ll be alright, though, doctor?” John called out. 

“He’s in good hands, gentlemen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might be updating quicker than usual, but this is still the slowest moving story in history I think! 
> 
> I decided to post half of this chapter for you all. Sorry for the cliffhanger, but the rest of it wasn't quite ready for you all :)  
> Things will start picking up next.
> 
> THANK YOU! You all are my favorite and dear friends :)
> 
> Please review! Comments truly make my day and encourage me more than you know.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, including a medical degree :)

“John,” Brian started, but the words caught in his throat. He coughed, and rubbed his hands on his legs, ignoring the way his plastic recliner groaned as he shifted. He didn’t want to get emotional today. Not until he had to, not before the doctor gave them an update. 

His back felt tight, creeping up his neck and around his head. “We should let Jim know we’re here.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the sting of a migraine beginning.

John was staring into the bathroom, caught up in his own thoughts. Someone had swept up the glass, the mirror had been removed. The hole in the wall -  _ courtesy of Roger’s fist? _ \- was gaping at them from the far side. The little tray of toiletries had been replaced, as had the shower curtain. It was astounding the amount of damage Roger had been able to inflict in his state. The bass player’s face was caught in a war between amusement and devastation. “I’d thought it was weird. Didn’t you think it was weird?” He muttered.

Brian leaned forward, stuck in his own train of thought “And Mary will want to know as well.” His knee bounced up and down.

John kneaded his hands, popping knuckles unconsciously. “He’d been too quiet.” He crossed the room, turning to look out the window.

“And Freddie.” Brian almost whispered.

“I mean, I know he was drugged but  _ still _ .”

“What do you think, Deaky?”

“Roger’s never that relaxed.”

“What?”

“The bastard had to break sometime.”

“Are you even listening to me?”

John brought his hands to his hair and let out a disbelieving laugh. “This is some shit show, innit?” He took on pacing a hole into the tile floor.

“John.”

“Brian.”

Brian narrowed his eyes. John leveled him with a similar look. “What do you think?”

“About what?” John stopped to sink into the window bench, throwing his arms out behind him to rest on the edge.

“I think we should call Fred.”

“No.”

“Just hear me out. If things are going downhill…” Brian swallowed, tilting his head in a  _ you know what I mean  _ kind of way.

“He’s choosing not to be here, Bri.” John’s voice was quiet, tight.

Brian looked up, at a loss. 

“ _ So _ ,” John threw a hand out, as if to prove his point. “I don’t want him here. As far as I’m concerned, this is entirely  _ his _ fault.”

_ And there it was.  _

The same thought had crossed Brian’s mind since that first call, which wasn’t entirely  _ fair _ \- accidents were accidents - but still. And t hey’d both been thinking it all along, and they both were appreciative of the other for lying about thinking it.  It was too  _ heavy _ .  But, with it now out in the open, the very air crackled with tension. That being said, something still didn’t sit right with Brian. He didn’t know what it was.

“You’re right.” He nodded, raising his hands in surrender. John deflated instantly at that, staring out at the rainy lot. Brian stood from the chair and headed out to the hallway, needing to think. “I’ll just be a moment.” He said when John’s eyes snapped over to him once again.

“Where are you going?” John sounded suspicious.

“I think I’ll make a few calls.”

The hallway was quiet, as it usually was. He smiled politely at the nurses sitting at the station across from Roger’s room. “Is there a phone around here?” 

They directed him down the hall, just outside the patient wing. And standing in front of the pay phone, a single thought crossed his mind.

_ Screw it.  _

Brian’s heart pounded as his fingers punched in Freddie’s number. He’d gone over this conversation in his mind so many times, it was memorized. Despite all that had happened, he couldn’t get the nagging feeling to leave him that he should speak to Freddie. He couldn’t believe Fred just  _ wouldn’t _ come, even if Queen were over and done. His hands shook as it rang.

“Hello?”

_ Damn. _

“Paul. It’s Brian.”

“Brian. Hey, uh, how’re things on your end?” Paul sounded cautiously cheerful. It also sounded like he was trying to be quiet.

“We’ve been better.” Brian blew out a breath, trying not to sound as impatient as he felt. 

“How’s Roger?” Paul actually sounded genuine. Or at least a very good imitation of it.

“That’s actually why I’m ringing. He’s not doing well.”

“Oh, I’m  _ so _ sorry to hear that.”

“Listen, I was hoping to speak to Freddie.”

“I’m sorry, Brian but he’s actually not in at the moment.”

_ “Paul, sweetheart. Who is it?” _

Brian couldn’t put a name to the emotion he felt at hearing Freddie’s voice after so long. It seemed like a lifetime ago that they’d had that dreadful conversation about record deals and “spreading his wings”. 

None of that mattered now, really.

Brian felt fury pool in his gut. Why would Paul lie?

“Who is that, then, Paul?”

Before that  _ snake _ could respond, Brian felt someone grab his shoulder. He nearly dropped the phone, jumping out of his skin and about to swing at whoever touched him.

“The doc is here.” John had his hands up in a  _ I come in peace _ gesture.

Brian slammed the phone down with more force than necessary, not caring that Paul’s excuse was cut off. 

None of that mattered now, really.

As they walked back to Roger’s room, Brian shoved his hands into his pockets to stop them shaking. John nudged him gently. “Everything alright?”

Brian didn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah. The call wouldn’t go through.” He lied. He couldn’t deal with it right now. He would confess to John later.

They rounded the doorway into Roger’s room and were greeted by the familiar, kind face of Dr. Hansen. Her hair was still hidden under a surgeon’s cap, having come straight from the operating room.

“Hey, guys.” They’re  _ way _ past formalities at this point. “I thought we could talk in my office?” She gestured out the hall and the three of them walked in silence. Dr. Hansen closed the door behind them. Her office was sterile like the rest of the hospital, white and minimally decorated save for one plant near the window. John and Brian stuffed themselves into the chairs behind the desk. Brian’s foot was bouncing again. Dr. Hansen sat down, pulling the cap from her head and letting her hair fall loose. She gestured at them with a  _ go ahead _ look. She knew they were bursting with questions.

“What  _ really _ happened?”

“Is he alright?”

She folded her hands across the desk, smiling at them reassuringly. “He’s okay.” She watched the rockstars completely relax at her words. “Like my intern said, Roger left his bed sometime early this morning. I don’t know what his state of mind was, but he completely destroyed his room. I’m sure you’ve seen it.”

“Why did he need surgery?”

“We had to go in and repair substantial damage to his arm. Mr. Taylor destroyed his cast during his little tirade.” John chuckled tersely at her choice of word. She raised her eyebrows at the bass player. “We were able to restore what we could, but he will need intense physical therapy in order to have full function.”

Brian blew out a loud breath. “That’s it, then?”

The doctor’s face fell at his words. “I’m afraid not. I’d wanted to give you the good news first.” The room seemed to drop in temperature. “Since the car accident, you know we’ve been treating Roger for tachycardia. His heartbeat is dangerously fast at times.” She paused, seemingly to prepare herself. “I believe that Roger suffered cardiac arrest in the bathroom.”

“What?” Brian’s own heart beating fast. John was a stone beside him.

“Roger was unresponsive when Dr. Hammond found him. He was having a hard time breathing, sort of gasping. My intern administered CPR and then an AED shock to keep him with us until our team was able to get him out of there.”

Brian felt the migraine in full force at her words. He felt physically sick, so he lowered his head between his legs for a moment, breathing slowly and steadily.

“But he’ll recover?” John choked out.

“He will. While our orthopedic surgeon worked on his arm, my team was able to work on his heart. We determined it necessary to fit Mr. Taylor with an ICD.”

“A pacemaker?” Brian kneaded the back of his neck, shooting a look over at John. 

“Of sorts. It’s a device placed in his chest, programmed to give a shock when it detects abnormal heart rhythms. I believe it’s the best course to prevent him from falling back into VFib.”

“VFib? What’s that?” John’s hands were in his hair again.

“Ventricular Fibrillation. The lower part of his heart can’t pump properly. It most likely developed from the tachycardia, due to the damage caused from the steering wheel.” She replied, blunt as ever.

After a moment, “What can we expect from here out?” 

“He will have to be on a variety of medications, and physical activity will be restricted for a time. But he will recover, of that I am certain.”

“Doc, in surgery, how’d he do? Did he..?” Brian could barely speak around the lump in his throat.

“Did he what?”

“Did his heart give out like last time?”

John pushed himself up from the chair suddenly, walking behind Brian towards the plant by the window. His hand was covering his mouth. “What the  _ hell _ Bri?” He whispered.

“Yes. It was touch and go for the first bit, I’ll admit. But I am confident he’ll make a full recovery.”

“Where is he now?” Brian asked, after another moment of tense silence.

Dr. Hansen glanced at the clock near the door. “He should be out of recovery by now. He’ll spend the night in the intensive care unit. Come, I’ll take you to him.”

* * *

  
  


“Paul!”

Freddie was sitting at the piano, watching as the Irishman picked up the phone, and upon hearing who it was, had dragged it into the kitchen, just out of Freddie’s field of vision. Freddie felt the familiar sting in his heart, the ever present feeling of regret that seemed to wash over him more and more frequently when he couldn’t distract himself fast enough. “Sweetheart. Who is it?”

Silence from the other room. 

Freddie shoved away from the piano and marched into the kitchen where Paul had disappeared. Paul had his back to the singer, staring down at the phone he’d just placed back on the receiver.

“Did you even hear me?” Freddie asked, annoyance bleeding into his tone.

Paul turned to the singer, face screwed into something unreadable. “It was Dr. Brian May.”

Freddie’s heart leapt at that, hopeful.

_ Hopeful for what? _

Freddie was suddenly filled with bitterness. And fear. Why would Brian call?

“What did he want?” His tone was sharp.

“I have no bloody idea. The call disconnected.”

Freddie said nothing, mulling it over in his mind.

“Don’t let it bother you, Fred.”

After a moment, “I’m never bothered, dear.” As if the call had never happened. As if he hadn’t possibly just missed his chance to get  _ out _ . Not like they would take him back anyway.

None of that mattered now, really.

* * *

  
  


Dr. Hansen paused outside an unfamiliar door, turning to look at them. “I must warn you. I’ve put in an order for a test of Roger’s mental health. Until we know exactly what’s going on, we’ve got to watch him carefully.” She slid open the door, holding it for the pair to enter before her.

Roger wasn’t sleeping like they expected. He was staring at the ceiling above, eyelids heavy. The oxygen mask was back. His chest was bare, the white bandage on his sternum gone, scar stretched out for all to see. New bruising purpled across his torso, reaching down to a new bandage - the incision for the ICD. His arm was wrapped and bound, resting on a pillow.

Around his good wrist was a leather strap, holding him to the bed.

Brian raised his eyebrows at the sight, tossing a questioning look at the doctor. “It’s to keep him safe. It’s not forever.” She shrugged as she read over Roger’s chart. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”

John, who had been frozen at the door until the doctor left, surged forward to lean down into Roger’s field of vision. “You  _ absolute _ tosser.”

Roger only blinked up at him lazily, letting out a slight chuckle behind the mask.

“What the hell were you thinking?” John continued, hands clenching and unclenching at his side as if he were going to take a swing at the drummer. And in a different life, maybe he would have.

“It’s good to see you too, Deaky.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be my longest chapter yet! Things are moving along now, friends.
> 
> Thank you for your comments! Keep 'em coming. Say hi. Yell at me to update faster. 
> 
> Love you all!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing :)

(3 WEEKS LATER)

The steam was still rising from his shower, the mirror slightly fogged. Roger had been frozen for awhile now, his own reflection staring back at him with disinterest, but not _complete_ disgust. 

He looked skinny. 

_You look healthy._

His eyes looked glassy _,_ sunken in.

_You’re alive._

And the scars.

_They aren't as dark as you think they are._

His hair had grown out a bit, the sides filling in to cover the scar on his temple, he noted with relief. But that’s where the relief stopped.

Roger leaned forward, gripping the sink with one hand, the other rubbed his chest absently, exploring. The scars had faded considerably, at least that’s what he’d been told. 

But he, personally, felt that was _shit._

His chest was a jigsaw puzzle, skin raised and ridged like a map. The one stretching down the center of his chest was still tender, and he feared it would never _not_ be. Then there was the ICD, the incision just under his left collarbone and darker than the rest, a reminder of how much his life would _never_ be the same.

And then, if he didn’t have enough reminders, there was his arm.

His hand trembled, especially when he felt anxious. It barely responded after a long day. It ached in the cold. The physical therapist told him he was improving, but today he can’t even squeeze it into a fist despite being able to twirl his drumsticks the day before that. It was infuriating. It was embarrassing.

_It doesn’t shake as noticeably as you think it does._

His good hand curled into a fist, aching to hit something. His body felt tight, coiled in anger and frustration and the utter _unfairness_ of it all.

The water dripped down his back, pulling him out of that spiral. Feeling defeated, he tried to focus on the task at hand. Roger brushed his hands down his face, taking note of the stubble covering his chin but he didn’t feel like shaving. His hair was a mess and dragging a towel through it only made it worse. 

He forced himself out of the bathroom and over to the dresser. Clean boxers are as far as he’d gotten after that when he felt a sting in the center of his chest. His stomach dropped. His chest tightened, heart fluttering. The following _punch_ left him breathless, staggering back to lean against the bed. 

But he couldn’t breathe. His body fell to his bed without him really feeling it, hands holding his chest. Roger stared above him, watching the ceiling fan spin lazily. A voice in his mind was telling him to relax, that everything was fine. But he couldn’t relax. He’d only experienced it a handful of times and it always took him time to come back to himself. The shock spurred an apprehensive kind of energy, it always did. 

_The ICD is just doing its job._

He remained on the bed, one hand on his chest with the other resting on his belly. Therapy had taught him deep breathing exercises, so he tried to match his breathing with the revolutions of the fan, focusing on how his hands raised with his torso with each breath.

“Roger?”

The blonde lolled his head, looking towards the voice. Brian was upside down in the doorway, smiling at him. “You know it’s a good look on you, mate,” he said with a wave of his hand at Roger’s boxers, “but pants might be more acceptable for going to the studio.”

And just like that, the panic was gone, washed away with Brian’s presence.

Roger laughed, still a bit breathless. He caught Brian’s outstretched hand, feeling slightly lightheaded as Brian pulled him up. “All right, Rog?”

“Fine.” The drummer pushed himself out of Brian’s reach, very aware of his bare chest on display.

As he dug in the drawers pulling out clothes he tried to ignore how his hands shook. He felt Brian’s eyes burning into him.

“How was your night?”

Roger did a little jump to pull the jeans into place, shaking the numbness out of his right hand uselessly before doing up the button. “Fine.” he answered, as he pulled a soft, cotton shirt over his head, trying to hide the wince as he lifted his arms up higher than usual. He was working on that.

“It happened again, didn’t it?” _Because Brian always knew._

He ignored the question, instead shooting Brian with a pleading look.

Roger wandered into the kitchen, feeling too anxious to stay in his room. When he realized he was scratching at the scar along his cheekbone, he sighed and dropped his hand.

_It’ll only make them stand out more._

Brian followed close behind him. Roger grabbed an apple, then promptly forgot about it after a few bites, lost in thought. He knew he needed to eat, but a shock always left his stomach churning.

“Mate. I can tell you’re ruffled.” Brian had made his way over to Roger’s stove. Roger felt dazed as the guitarist poured them each a cup of tea. Roger sank into a chair, the burn of the mug in his palms for a moment was a cheap distraction, but it worked. 

“I just wish I knew when they were coming.”

Brian nodded across from him, taking a careful sip from his own cup. “When did it happen?” 

“Just before you got here.” Roger shoved one hand through the collar of his shirt, kneading that spot below his collarbone for a moment and made a mental note to find his medication. Mental notes didn’t stay long, but he couldn’t really help that.

“Are you feeling alright?”

Roger brought both hands up to rub his eyes. “Like I said, fine.”

After a moment, Brian broke the silence. “The doc said it’s perfectly normal.”

_Normal._

“No.”

“No?”

“No, Brian. Nothing about _this_ is normal.” He gestured to himself in frustration.

Brian, not even batting an eye, took another sip of his tea. “Normal is all relative, Rog.”

Roger made a face at Brian, and let out a breath.

“What’s normal now isn’t the same as before the accident, but that doesn’t make it bad.”

“Oh, it’s bad.” Roger shoved away from the table, avoiding eye contact. He ran his fingers along the counter, forcing numb fingers to tap out a beat. It was slow and sluggish. 

“Come on, Roger.” Brian followed Roger out of the kitchen. “It’s _different_. We’re adjusting. That’s all”

Roger didn’t respond to Brian as the guitar player followed him back into his bedroom. Roger busied his hands searching for _something_. He paused, staring straight ahead trying to recall why he even went into his bedroom. His mind was all over the place, all crossed wires and blank pages.

“Looking for these?” Brian held out the little orange bottle, nipped from below Roger’s sticky note reminder on the wall above the table reading _‘did you take your meds?’._ The blonde crossed the room and took them from his friend, screwing his eyes shut to avoid eye contact. His right hand struggled to open the bottle, so he switched hands with an irritated groan.

“Where are we going, again?” He asked, turning towards the bathroom to use the sink to wash the pills down. 

Brian sat on the bed before answering. “We’re stopping by the studio, and then I’m sure you’ll have to make a stop by to see Dr. Hansen.”

Roger pursed his lips and nodded curtly. “Right.” He stood there awkwardly, trying not to let it get to him that his memory was flighty at best. “I’ll just phone the doc then.”

The drummer lifted the phone off it’s receiver, staring at the buttons. His stomach was filled with lead, the panic beginning to pinch his chest at the thought of going back to hospital _again._ With numb fingers he punched the number and made the appointment _only_ because Brian was watching him carefully.

Brian tossed his jacket over at him, chuckling as Roger scrambled to catch it. “Let’s go. Deaky is meeting us there.”

Roger pulled on the jacket, patting the pockets for his sunglasses. As the pair passed the mirror hanging in the hallway, Roger paused. He didn’t _hate_ what he saw, but he wasn’t pleased either. He couldn’t go out looking as he did, the scars were too much for him today. Ignoring Brian’s curious look, Roger snagged a red knit hat from the hook, jammed it down over his hair, and locked the door behind them without a second glance.

Brian pulled Roger out onto the sidewalk, shrugging as he said, “It’s a nice day. Figured we could walk.”

Roger didn’t respond, expression unreadable behind dark glasses. But he couldn’t help the immense relief at not having to ride in a car today. 

Roger trailed alongside Brian, pulling the hat low enough to cover the scar over his eyebrow. It’s gray outside, and _just_ cold enough to justify a hat.

He felt eager. And excited. And _terrified_.

And the closer they get to the studio his breath is caught in his throat.The panic nestled deep in his chest, sitting between his ribs.

The sun broke through the clouds for one breathtaking moment and Roger felt something stir inside. He was suddenly caught in a memory. _He met Freddie’s eyes around the sunglasses and slowly leaned forward, taking a drag straight from Freddie’s outstretched hand. Roger felt a rush in his gut when his lips lightly brushed Fred’s fingers. He was suddenly and tragically aware of how close they were, the warmth of Freddie’s side pressed against his, Freddie’s hair moving in the breeze, Freddie’s rough hands now resting against the car...._

“Roger?” 

He was suddenly ripped from the memory, trying not to tremble. _Where did that come from?_

Brian smiled gently and dropped a hand on his shoulder and Roger isn’t sure why he’s so surprised that his friend had noticed his increasing panic. He’s never as subtle as he thought. “Ready?”

“Let’s do it.” Roger steeled himself, jamming shaking hands deep into jacket pockets.

The studio hallway was dim and smoky and familiar. Roger breathed deeply for the first time ever, he felt like. At the end of the hall, John stood framed in the light. He waved, tentatively, and gave Brian a look Roger didn’t quite understand. He was immediately wary.

“What’s with the face, John?” He asked, heart pounding again.

Instead of answering the question, John just laughed. “So suspicious.” He winked at them.

John pushed open the door and Roger was greeted by a room full of faces - most he couldn’t quite place - cheering when he walked in. Mary _-_ he was relieved that he finally remembered her name - was among them, standing beside a man who was decidedly _not_ Freddie. 

Roger heard his name being called, and Mary flew towards him. He put his hands up to catch her, startled. Her arms are thrown around his neck, forcing him back a few steps. He let out a breathless chuckle at her enthusiasm. She stepped back, but kept both hands around his face. “Look at you! You look amazing!” She gushed, brushing his cheek.

“What’s going on?” Roger blinked around the room, studying the faces watching him as he pocketed the sunglasses. He couldn’t place names, but he knew faces. He knew the memories and emotions connected to each person. 

John clapped him on the back, leaving his hand resting on his shoulder in a calming gesture. “Everyone wanted to see you. It’s about time you dragged your sorry ass out of that house.”

Roger found himself on the couch, John leaning on the arm rest next to him. Brian was across the room, leading someone over to them. “The only reason I stay in that house is so I don’t have to see your ugly mug day in and day out anymore.” Roger snarked, jabbing at John’s side.

Before John could respond, Brian was standing right in front of them with a man in a suit and greying hair. “Roger. It’s good to see you out and about.” His voice is deep and calming. He reached down to shake the drummer’s left hand warmly. Roger stared up at him, trying to place his face before it was too obvious he didn’t remember this man’s name.

But, like usual, Brian always knew.

“Jim here’s been an angel during all this. You have him to thank for keeping the media away.”

“Didn’t realize all this was such big news.” Roger tapped his chest, smirking at them. He was momentarily distracted by the studio, by the bantering and joking of his friends around him - the roadies, the set managers, bodyguards. John was now sitting on the drum risers, tossing a rubber ball back and forth with someone. Mary was sitting next to him on the couch, watching him watch everyone. It was almost perfect.

 _Don’t think about him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already written the big moments you all are dying for. We just have to build up to it a little more. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your kind words! Seriously it makes my day!! 
> 
> Drop a review. Say hi :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing

A few weeks passed and despite his eagerness to see Roger, Brian’s smile faltered when the drummer walked through the front door with John, looking worse than he did when he left the hospital. He was sporting deep circles under his tired, blue eyes. His gaze drifted slowly around Brian’s sitting room, and even though it’s almost one in the afternoon, he looked like he just woke up and is still struggling to break through the cloudy haze of sleep. 

The blonde was unsteady on his feet, only moving reliably with John’s hand on the small of his back. The short sleeved shirt he wore hung off his thin frame, far thinner, Brian thought, than when he was in the hospital. John looked troubled, but tossed Brian an easy smile as he shut the door behind him. 

“All right, guys? Come in, make yourselves comfortable.” Brian watched, wary, as John guided Roger to the couch. The drummer sunk into the cushions without a glance.

Something was off.

“What have you been up to, Rog?” Brian gave his friend a warm smile, sitting in the armchair across from the drummer.

Roger barely stirred. “Very little.” He fiddled with the straps of his arm brace listlessly.

“How do you feel?” Brian tried again, glancing over at John who shrugged as he leaned against the wall.

“Fine.”

It was silent for a few awkward moments. Roger was the first to move, reaching up to knead his eyes with his good hand. Brian felt a pang at his appearance, the bruising under his eyes pointed to no sleep.

“I’m worried about you, brother.” John muttered from his spot by the doorway. 

Roger lolled his head towards John, eyes flashing dangerously. “I said I’m fine.” 

“That's not entirely true though, is it?” John’s own eyes were sharp. 

Roger deflated, leaning back into the couch. He pushed his hand through the collar of his shirt to knead at the skin there, too exhausted to put up any sort of fight. But, otherwise, there was no response.

“Any tea, Brian?” John asked suddenly, but gave a pointed look towards the kitchen. Brian tried to meet Roger’s eye once more as they left the front room, but the drummer was ignoring them completely.

John hoisted himself to sit on the countertop, legs swinging against the cabinets as Brian reheated the water for their tea. 

“What’s going on?” Brian pulled three cups out onto the counter.

“I dunno.” John sighed, keeping his voice low. He was wringing his hands. “He's being weird. Every time I go to pick him up, he's doing something weird. I think his memory has gotten worse.”

Brian frowned at John’s words, taking a sip as he composed his thoughts. The more he thought about it, Roger _had_ changed over the last few weeks especially. And not for the better. But it had been so subtle he’d barely caught on until John brought it up. Roger seemed despondent, barely interested in anything let alone interacting. Roger hadn’t moved from the couch, and Brian would’ve believed he were sleeping if not for his knee bouncing up and down steadily.

“I went to pick him up for his physical therapy appointment and,” John paused, leaning in towards Brian. “He was just standing in the garage.” 

“Standing in the garage?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

“So?”

“What do you make of that?”

“Of him in the garage?”

“Yep.”

“He was just waiting for you to pick him up, wasn’t he?”

John gave him a funny look. “He didn’t remember I was coming to get him.” 

“So then what was he doing in the garage?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.”

Brian hummed, pursing his lips as he poured hot water. “Well, did you ask him?” He didn’t turn around, but he could feel John’s frown burning into his back. “Is he drunk?” Brian joked, ignoring the daggers being thrown his way.

“He can’t drink. You know that.” 

Brian sobered up after that. Time to focus.

“Is he on some new meds?”

John swallowed thickly. “I don’t think he’s taking his meds.”

That brought Brian up short. “You don’t think? Or you know?” Brian placed the tea back on the counter and squinted at John.

“I _know_. His pill sorter was full. Bri, you don’t understand. He’s just stopped. Says the medicine for his arm is making him sick and his attempt to avoid it is to just not eat which only makes everything worse. And the shocks from his pacemaker,” He took a deep breath. “They always make him upset. He’s right on the edge of completely losing it - and you know how easy that is for Roger.”

Brian nodded in agreement, feeling a muscle in his jaw twitch as he ground his teeth together. Before he could respond, a sound to his left nearly gave him a heart attack.

“I think I might be losing it.” Roger spoke after another tense moment, so quietly they nearly missed it.

John jumped down from the counter and carefully guided Roger to a chair. “I don’t blame you. There’s a lot to lose out there.” He threw a look to Brian, who set tea with a bit of honey in front of the drummer.

“It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be.”

Brian moved to Roger’s side as he spoke, “Yeah, it is. But we’ve just got to stick together. We’re brothers. It’ll all be okay.”

* * *

_Freddie found himself in a recording studio, the soft sounds of the countryside filtering in through the door behind him. This place was familiar. Comforting. Full of memories he couldn’t quite reach. His feet took him through the control box and into the room itself._

_He stared up at the rafters above him, lost in thought. In front of him were the panels they all once stood in front of as Queen recorded his six minute epic poem. Freddie felt himself sink to the ground, resting his back against the wall. It was easy to imagine the drummer in front of him, whining about the high notes they all knew he had no problem hitting._

_“Hey.” The blonde gave a blinding smile._

_And now Freddie knew he was losing it. Roger was truly there, hair long and flowing from days long gone. The drummer was placing the headset on the stool behind him and walked towards Freddie’s stunned frame._

_“I’m glad you came.” Freddie choked out, still not entirely sure if this were real or not. It_ felt _real. Roger felt real right in front of him._

_“It’s been a while.” Roger settled next to Freddie, and it was like nothing had ever changed. Freddie reeled at his closeness, taking in the sunny complexion, the toned arms, his eyes kind but holding a hint of concern._

_“Yeah.” The singer felt a lump in his throat, emotions swelling within him at the blonde’s words._

_What the hell was happening?_

_“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.” Roger planted his feet in front of them, arms resting on his knees as he spoke. He said it casually enough that Freddie felt lost once again._

_This_ had _to be a dream._

_“It’s been really busy. Paul wouldn’t let me out. It’s difficult to make a record alone.” The words poured out easier than he hoped. All his deepest and most secret feelings spread out for all to hear. His chest was constricting. He felt slightly breathless, but that had been a thing for the past few weeks._

_“You don’t look well. Are you okay?” Roger leaned forward so he was right in Freddie’s field of vision. The singer was thrown back in time to when they had taken a drive. A time before things had gotten so bad. And just like then, Roger’s words were all he needed to hear to completely break down his walls._

_“I feel awful. I’m nauseous all the time. It’s been really tough. I mean, I don’t really know what Paul wants. I don’t know what’s going on.” Freddie felt weak, his head falling back to rest against the wall behind them. His hands shook in front of him._

_What was it about Roger that made him give up all his secrets so willingly? He felt completely at war with himself. There was a_ reason _he’d left with Paul. He couldn’t forget that. Paul was supportive and wonderful and everything he needed to succeed as a solo artist._

_None of that mattered now, really._

_“Freddie, you need to leave.” Roger’s tone took Freddie by surprise. While a moment ago they were two friends catching up, he suddenly was tense. Anxious. The sounds of Ridge Farm disappeared, an eerie, echoing silence taking its place. Freddie shivered._

_The words poured out once again. “I miss you. I miss you all. You’re my family and I want to be with you. You understand how sorry I am?”Freddie was pleading. Was this a nightmare or was that real life?_

_“We want you with us. I want you with us.” Roger stared right into his eyes, hands reaching out to grab Freddie’s shoulders. Freddie felt relief stir in his gut._

_“I can’t live this life anymore. It’s a hellhole. Please.”_

_“Then let's go.” The drummer’s calloused hands grabbed his own._

_“How?”_

_“You and me. We’re gonna walk outta here right now. And everything will change. Okay?” Roger tried to pull Freddie into a standing position, but his body felt trapped in quicksand. His heart was pounding. He pulled his legs beneath him in slow motion, leaning into Roger’s hands for support._

_There was a sudden screech as the mic was turned on, feedback echoing throughout the room. Freddie flinched, kneeling back down in defeat. In his heart, he knew this would come. He would never leave._

_“It really sounds like I missed something here. Huh? Freddie?” Paul’s voice was calmer than he’d expected._

_“Freddie -” Roger stood over him, staring through the window as a voice poured in. His hands reached back out to the singer cautiously._

_“Listen to me. I’m really sorry that you feel like you live in a hellhole. I didn’t mean it. You know, I’ve really tried to make you feel comfortable, loved, supported…” Paul was staring at Roger as he spoke, eyes glinting dangerously._

_Freddie suddenly exploded, slamming his hand against the glass. Paul didn’t even blink. “Then why did you make me leave them, Paul?” He yelled, voice rasping painfully._

_“You chose this, Freddie. You left with me.” Freddie felt his heart twinge painfully at Paul’s words. He was right, after all. Freddie had chosen this. He couldn’t just leave. Freddie swallowed, closing his eyes in resignation._

_It was just a dream after all._

_“Fred. Let’s walk out of here. Come on.” Roger touched his arm lightly, pulling Freddie back into the present. Paul was watching them through the glass, expression hard. Freddie couldn’t bear to look at Roger in that moment, knowing how he was right on the edge. He was crumbling._

_“I’m not strong enough.” He whispered to the blonde, pulling out of his reach and walking towards the door. It was time to put all this behind him. No more toying with fantasies or what ifs. He had chosen this path._

_So why couldn’t he breathe?_

_Roger’s hand flew forward to catch Freddie’s wrist just as he went to turn the door handle. The blonde looked just as panicked as Freddie felt. His tone was desperate.“You can see your family again. You can get your life back. Freddie, please. I’m here.” The blonde was panting, following Freddie to the door. “So come with me. You’ll die here.”_

_Freddie paused. He had never felt so conflicted in his life. He couldn’t take back what he’d done. He couldn’t take back the hurtful words, lashed out to inflict pain on the people he cared for most. He could pretend they didn’t care about him. No one had reached out since to try and talk it out, anyway._

_And he’d be damned if he were the first to make contact with them again._

_“Don’t you understand? If I let you go, you’re going to be pulled down.” Paul’s voice echoed in his mind, reinforcing Freddie’s walls. Building them up once again. But, deep down, Freddie knew there was a crack in the foundation._

_“Look at me, stay with me. You need to get back to your life. You need to get back to yourself. Please come with me.”_

_Their voices were fading. The war in his mind was reaching an unprecedented level. His ears were ringing, he felt like he was falling._

_There’s no way out._

Freddie lurched forward, gasping as he was brought back to full awareness. His body felt sticky and numb. He was trembling. His legs were wrapped and twisted in silk sheets, adding to his confusion. As he breathed, he realized he was in his bed. 

Paul was sitting next to him, hands outstretched and grounding.

“What?” Freddie croaked. “What’s going on?”

“Freddie. It’s alright. I think you’ve had a nightmare.” As Freddie sunk back into the pillows, Paul’s hands trailed up his arm in a calming gesture. Freddie felt his heart slowing as exhaustion hit him once more. 

“We’ve just gotta stick together. It’ll all be okay.” Paul kept up a steady cadence of reassurances, but even though Freddie pretended to sleep, he’d never felt more awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I feel like MIchael Scott where I start a sentence but don't know where it's going and I just hope to find out along the way. That was this chapter. But WOW I suddenly was hit with inspiration and couldn't write it fast enough.
> 
> Anyway. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Comments give me life. Love you all.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing :)

Roger’s mind felt cloudy with agitation and anxiety. Dr. Hansen’s words were a blur in a hospital full of unfamiliar faces and names that he chased endlessly. She’s going on and on at this appointment, speaking to him about therapy and medications and  _ brain damage _ . She tosses that out casually, like it didn’t completely change his life. 

Did he feel easily irritated, sad, or anxious?  _ No more than usual. _

Had he been feeling confused? _ About what? _

Was he slow in thinking, speaking, or reading?  _ That’s an asshole question to ask somebody. _

Did he have difficulty getting organized or paying attention?  _ Who didn’t? That doesn’t mean anything. _

Patches of conversation would break through the fog, and he heard himself responding on autopilot. 

Had he been forgetting things that happened days (or minutes) ago? 

Roger didn’t even know what he’d had for breakfast that morning, let alone much since the accident. It didn’t disturb him as much as Brian and John believed that it should - months of his life completely blank or randomized. But, honestly, he couldn’t miss what he didn’t remember. Thinking too hard on something would make the migraine worse anyway.

He was sitting on the exam table, the paper crinkling under his legs. Dr. Hansen was watching him expectantly. That’s when he felt his stomach drop.

_ Oh, shit. _

“Sorry. What?” He scratched at the scar over his eye. Roger couldn’t keep up with his own mind - so easily distracted. He couldn’t afford to be distracted when he could barely remember what day it was. 

“Have you noticed any of that?”

Roger felt a pit in his stomach at her question. It was swelling and lodging into his throat, making it harder to breathe.

“Any of what?” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Problems remembering?” She gave a slight chuckle, but he didn’t get the joke.

His chest was tight. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Maybe?”

“Why are you asking so many questions?” Black spots were creeping into his vision. There wasn’t any air in here. 

“It’s just one question.” The doctor stood up and walked towards him.

He flinched away, feeling hot and shaky. “So?”

“It’s alright.” She held her hands out in a  _ I come in peace  _ sort of way, but it didn’t stop the pounding of his heart.

Roger pushed off from the exam table and over to the little medical sink. A shaking hand shoved the faucet on full blast, pouring icy water into his trembling hands. He splashed water onto his face in between great, gasping breaths.

After a moment. “This is ridiculous.” He rasped, trying to ground himself.

As usual - or at least he _thinks_ it’s usual \- the doctor smiles knowingly and patiently. She crossed the room to grab a pressure cuff off the table. “It’s not.”

“I don’t know why it happens like it does.” He shut the water off, turning to look at her. “Out of bloody nowhere.” He sat himself back on the exam table.

“How often does this happen?” The doctor lifted his sleeve to wrap the cuff around his arm as she spoke.

Roger shrugged. “Rarely.”

She lifted an eyebrow.

“All right.” He looked down, fiddling with the straps of his arm brace. “I’ll be honest, I’m a mess. Especially after a shock.”

She nodded, and wrote down something in his chart. That was the whole reason for the appointment, after all.

“Would you remove your shirt, please? I’d like to check the pacemaker.”

Immediately, he reached to pull the shirt over his head, the baseball cap landing on the table behind him. A flash of  _ something  _ crossed his mind and he didn’t understand until he had to lift his arms high to pull the collar over his head and his chest twinged painfully. 

_ Oh. That’s right. _

He made a mental note to only wear button down shirts from now on.

“How's your pain level?” Dr. Hansen was watching his face carefully as he panted slightly.

“Not bad.” He lied, not wanting to get into it. He tried not to react when she pressed the cold stethoscope on his scar but couldn’t hold back a groan when she had him hold his breath, the air in his lungs rushing back out sharply as his chest pinched.

“You know you can’t lie to me, Roger.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Still just a bit sore from physical therapy this week. And it’s usually tight in the mornings.” He nodded at the clock behind her.

She smiled at him. “How is physical therapy going?” She removed his arm brace to check his hand. “This looks really good.”

“It’s fine. I’m making great progress, apparently.” This week he had noticed his hand responding  _ almost _ normally. “This area is still a bit numb.”

“It might always be that way, I’m afraid.” Surgery could only do so much. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think I’ll still be able to drum like this?” He rubbed the spot on his right hand, just below his knuckles in the back where there was no feeling. On a good day, he barely noticed it. On a bad day, he couldn’t even extend his fingers.

_ He was working on it _ .

She sat back in her chair, a thoughtful look crossing her features. “I don’t see why not. It’ll be an adjustment for sure, but your arm has made a full recovery otherwise. You just need to rebuild up that strength.”

Roger was satisfied with that. His biggest sleep deterrent had been the thought of never drumming again.

“Can I ask you something?” Dr. Hansen turned back on him.

He shrugged, suddenly wary of what was to come. “Sure.”

“John and Brian, well, they’re worried about you.”

Roger gave her a pointed look. “Is that your question?”

She pressed on. “They say you haven’t been taking your meds.”

“How would they know?” He pulled his shirt over his head, the soreness in his sternum feeding his sudden anger.

“Is it true?” She faced him right on. 

He stared right back. This was not how he was planning on spending this appointment.

“Don’t tell me it’s your antiarrhythmics?” 

“No, definitely not. No...” he deflated, looking up at the ceiling as he deliberated his answer. “I just feel like the anxiety meds are not doing a damn thing. I take them, I don’t take them. I feel anxious either way.”

She hummed in response, studying his face. “We’ve talked about this before. Treating your anxiety is the best course to prevent inappropriate ICD shocks.”

“They don’t happen  _ that _ often.” He swallowed thickly, knowing that was a lie. Time for a little heart to heart. “But it’s just  _ so _ much worse now, you know? And the smallest of things can trigger it. And John and Brian looking at me like I’m  _ broken  _ all the time seriously doesn’t help.”

“You’re not broken.”

He shrugged.

“You know the anti-anxiety meds are there to help you.” She continued kindly.

“I can handle a little anxiety, doc.”

“It will only help. And you’ll finally get some sleep.”

Roger bit his bottom lip, and tugged the baseball cap further down to hide the bags under his eyes.

_ Damn, she missed nothing _ .

“Back to my earlier question.” She crossed her legs. 

Roger sighed deeply, his brows coming together. It was quiet for one tense moment. 

She leveled him with a look he didn’t understand. “I asked if you’d noticed any changes with your memory?”

He nodded, slightly embarrassed that he’d forgotten  _ again. _

“Apparently.” He laughed it off, trying not to show her how bothered he was. “I walk into a room and I don’t remember why I’ve gone in there. But, it’s like that twenty-four seven. With  _ everything.  _ It’s maddening.”

She tilted her head as she spoke, deciding on a different angle.”Do you notice it more when you are tired?”

“A bit. I just don’t understand how I can remember what I wore on tour two years ago, but can’t remember that Fred’s in Munich. You know what I mean?”

Dr. Hansen stood and crossed the room to a stand of packets. After a brief search, she pulled a stack of papers and handed them to Roger.  _ Traumatic Brain Injury and Short Term Memory Loss _ was in big block letters on the front.

“Short term memory loss?” He frowned. “The hell is that?”

“It can develop immediately after the head injury or slowly progress over time - which I believe is the case with you. Symptoms are confusion, inability to recall new information, difficulty retrieving a desired word, trouble remembering simple instructions, and problems with communication.”

“Sounds like me.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not reversible. But it’s very treatable with routines and therapy.”

Roger felt a flood of emotion at the news, but not the emotion he was expecting. No panic - just a vague sense that this was familiar. _De-ja-vu._ “Have we had this conversation before, doc?” He cut in.

She didn’t respond, but in that he knew the answer all the same.

“You’re joking.”

“Roger. It’s not a big deal.”

“Except it is.” 

“You mentioned a migraine earlier?” She suddenly switched topics, leaving him reeling for a moment.

“Yeah. Right behind my eye.” He rubbed at his scars out of habit, but that never alleviated the pain when he had a headache. “If I think about  _ anything  _ too hard, it gets worse. It’s easier to just not.” 

“Is that just when you try to remember the accident? Or day to day?”

“Day to day, normally. You wouldn’t want to remember a trauma like that anyway, would you?” He laughed, humorlessly. 

She laughed with him. “No way.”

“Honestly? I don’t know when I’ve forgotten something. I’ve just been keeping quiet about whether I know what’s going on or not. I’m sure that’s why they’re worried.” No need to explain who  _ they _ were. “I’m dealing with it.”

“Don’t shut them out.” 

She finally freed him under the stipulation that he took  _ all _ his meds, including a new migraine relief. She also gave him permission to leave the arm brace off, unless he was drumming. As for his memory, that was more complicated. 

But there was no time to stress about that. For the first time, the migraine was gone. He didn’t have to wear that blasted brace, and that alone gave him a confidence he hadn’t felt in months. He could pretend everything was absolutely and completely normal. Maybe he should get a new car.

It was time to start getting his life back on track.

* * *

Roger hadn’t wanted them in the room with him. And John had to pretend it didn’t sting, but the drummer was an adult after all, and his voice echoed in his mind.  _ I’ll be fine, mum. _

The guy needed his space.

It had become a routine for them, whether Roger remembered it or not. Once a week, John or Brian would drive Roger to one of his appointments being heart, therapy, or others - while the drummer had been cleared to drive, he couldn’t make himself get behind the wheel.

They were working though that. 

Since their conversation in the kitchen over a week ago, all three of them went to appointments together. 

_ Got to stick together. _

John sat in one of the plush chairs in the hallway, watching Brian as the guitarist lazily wandered around to the big windows.  Brian eventually made it over to meet Roger at the door of Dr. Hansen’s office. 

John reached for one of the magazines on the little table, only pausing for a moment when Freddie’s face showed up on one of the covers. He couldn’t help the pang he felt at seeing his friend’s face, even if it was covered in real or not real tabloid scandal.

Had it truly been almost six months since they last spoke? He supposed those stories could be true - it’s not like he would know for sure.

John grabbed it out of curiosity, but paused once again at one of the story headlines. He felt his stomach drop out. 

When the bass player felt his tall friend standing over him, he showed his friend the headline only to feel the panic increase tenfold at Brian’s face.

“What’s going on?” He gripped the magazine tightly, standing to meet Brian.

“Roger’s gone.”

* * *

The cafe was within walking distance from the hospital. But it was busy. Roger pulled the hat a little farther over his hair, barely peeking out over his dark glasses. He just wanted a coffee. He just needed to think, to  _ plan _ .

Someone bumped into his shoulder, and he nearly dropped his newly purchased drink, grateful it was in his good hand. He stepped back to find himself standing in front of the door so he moved again to press against the window. Roger dropped his head, staring at his feet and tugged on his hat anxiously.

He hated how lost, how  _ scared  _ he feels in a place that used to be so familiar.

He took a sip of his drink, forcing the panic back down. He looked for his opening through the slight crowd pushing past him into the cafe. Once it was clear, he took a step out onto the sidewalk but immediately ran into another body coming through the door before he closed it behind him.

Roger ducked his head, mumbling an apology as he tried to step around them when their hand suddenly snaked out and gripped his right wrist tight. 

“You good, mate?” Roger asked, prying his arm out of their painful grip and trying not to absolutely lose it. 

The stranger peered at him, trying to see past his dark glasses. After an awkward second, Roger heard him whisper, “You’re Roger Taylor?”

_ Oh shit.  _

“Roger Taylor!” Another voice was followed by a flash of a camera. Roger flinched so violently that his hip knocked the corner of a table and empty coffee mug tips over. 

The panic roared back, constricting his lungs, tugging at his stomach, catching in his throat.

The cafe suddenly erupted, filled with voices and bodies pressing against him. He shoved himself back out the door and onto the sidewalk as a small group cornered him. 

“You’re alive!”

“Will you still be able to perform with Queen?” 

“What damage did you take on from the accident?”

He hears their questions, knows he should answer but honestly is all too tired to. He’s tired and his head hurts. How the hell did they know about the accident? 

What made him think he could do all this today?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my friends!  
> sorry for the delay - and sorry for the cliffie.
> 
> what did you think?


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing :)

Roger wrapped his arms around himself and waited for the anxiety to pass. It’s not easy, not with a sprinting, ceaseless mind. It bounds and leaps and soars, until it finds one place where it can take that one awful step.

Back to Freddie, with the talking and the arguing and the deal.  _ I don’t need anyone.  _ Back to the accident. Part of him remembered what it was like when he was flying through the air, when the paramedics pulled him from the wreckage.  _ Can you please tell me your name? Can you tell me anything?  _ He thought of his heart.  _ We’ve repaired what we can, but there will be some long term effects.  _

Honestly.

Frustration bundled in his right shoulder and twisted tight, aching knots into his neck. He’d never felt so powerless and out of control.

At least it was quiet now. 

But his heart was out of control. He’d felt the shock at some point during his sprint, causing him to stumble into the alley to catch his breath.  _ Two in one day \- what a joke. _

Roger rose from the ground, back sliding against the brick as he stood, ignoring the head rush. The sun couldn’t touch him here, in the dark, quiet alley where he hid like a rat.  _ They _ couldn’t touch him here. 

At the thought, Roger’s heart pounded in his chest, up his neck, roaring in his ears.

_ Get a grip. They can’t find you here _ . 

“They” being the mob of people who had followed him for a block, shouting questions and pulling his jacket and taking his picture. His hat was gone, pulled off by the wandering hands of some asshole. It didn’t used to be like this. 

_ He  _ didn’t used to be like this. 

The flash of the camera used to energize, ignite, empower. Now it bled him dry. A roaring crowd would make his stomach flip in excitement and anticipation, not dread. 

_ I’ve been in the house too long _ . 

Roger strained to remember how he even got here. How he arrived at this moment completely alone, but his memory couldn’t push through the hands and voices and people  _ in his space and _ \- 

_ Stop.  _

But then, of all the stupid things to think of, he thought about his car. Or rather, his lack of one. The thought alone was enough to spur him forward, forcing his body off the wall and out onto the street, the barest hint of a plan forming in his mind. 

* * *

“What do you mean he’s gone?” John’s mind was racing, his body too stunned to move, and Brian just stupidly standing over him didn’t help.

“I mean, I’m fairly certain he left without us.  _ That  _ kind of gone.” Brian held his hands up, more calm than John expected. His friend seemed more amused than worried.

“Did the doc have any idea where he was headed?”

“All she said was that he wanted a coffee.” He gestured to Dr. Hansen’s office in a  _ be my guest  _ motion, but John sank into the chair. The magazine in his hand crumpled under him, bringing his attention back to it. He held it out to Brian silently, showing the headline.

_ QUEEN DRUMMER INVOLVED IN NEAR FATAL CRASH - EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS  _

_ FROM AN INSIDE SOURCE _

Brian grabbed the magazine from John, eyes widening in shock. He opened it, flipping to the correct page. Photos of Roger from their last show, standing side by side with Freddie as the crowd roared. The caption threw out words like  _ scandal _ and  _ betrayal _ \- that Queen was done for good, Freddie nowhere to be found. Tragic photos of Roger’s car, a smoldering fiery mess of mangled steel, destroyed beyond all recognition. 

They hadn’t seen the car themselves, and seeing it now made John slightly nauseous. 

_ No one could have survived that _ .

The page detailed the story of the accident, speculating the reason behind it being Queen’s recent breakup. That was common knowledge, people knew they were taking a  _ break _ . But to speculate that it caused Roger to crash his car boiled Brian’s blood. The accident wasn’t his fault.

He turned to the next page angrily, only to be stunned at the paparazzi style photograph of the two of them around Roger’s bedside, the thick tube inserted down his throat to help him breathe clearly visible.

“How did they get photographs?” He demanded, as if John had any idea himself. 

When Roger had been in the accident, Miami had been a god-send. Their friend and manager had channeled all his worry and stress into organization, a whirlwind of PR and resources to keep Roger’s name out of the story. With an accident as major as that, it was difficult. Especially with the driver of the other vehicle walking away with merely a bruised forehead and a sprained wrist. Unfortunately, and perhaps  _ fortunately _ , he’d fled the scene of the crash, drawing all media attention to tracking him down. Roger became a faceless, nameless victim and was able to recover in relative peace. The medical staff had signed confidentiality agreements. Anyone who knew was on a  _ need to know _ basis. It had been perfect.

Someone had ratted them out.

“We need to call Miami.”

”No. We need to find Roger.” John whispered. “He can’t be alone with this circulating.”

Brian tucked the magazine into his bag and held the door of their private waiting room for John to step through. The hallway was alive with nurses and doctors, no one paying them any mind. Most of them had gotten used to the rockstars frequenting their wing, while others were too starstruck to make eye contact. 

John barely heard Brian’s voice asking someone if they’d seen Roger -  _ how the hell do you lose a grown man? -  _ as his attention was drawn out the massive windows that lined the hallway. They provided a direct view of the bustling street below, a quaint cafe just across the way. The cafe doors were jammed open, filled with people. 

_ That’s strange _ . 

They passed that cafe nearly every week, even stopping in more recently after an appointment. John didn’t consider himself a snob by any means, but the place wasn’t  _ that _ good. The usually empty dining area was the perfect place for a rockstar to get his drink without much notice. 

The mob of people suddenly were pushed out onto the sidewalk as one person shoved their way through. John’s stomach dropped as he caught a flash of blonde hair when the man’s hat was pulled off. He watched, completely stunned, as Roger broke free of the crowd and sprinted up the block.

_ Shit.  _

“What was that John?” Brian called from the nurses’ station, pausing his conversation. John hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. 

“We’ve got to go.” The bass player grabbed Brian by the arm and yanked him down the hall, ignoring Brian’s apology to the confused nurses. “He’s at the cafe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I didn't forget! And to make up for my terrible absence, I'll be posting several chapters for your reading pleasure.


	18. Chapter 18

"Excuse me." 

Her voice was high and clear, and it broke through the cloud of his mind. A cloud where he didn’t remember how long he’d been sitting in the model car in the middle of a showroom. It had just been a quiet place to rest, away from prying eyes. A place he could catch his breath.

The woman tapped lightly on the window when he didn’t move, making him jump. His heart pounded in his ears again, chest twinging. 

He really needed his pills, but he had no idea where he’d left them.

He pushed the door open gently, trying to hide the shaking of his hands. “Hi, how are you?” He plastered a winning smile on, meeting her eyes behind his sunglasses.

“Can I help you today?” She smiled back at him, eyebrows still furrowed in confusion. Her eyes were bright with amusement, though, which put him at ease.

“I’d like to buy a car.” He heard himself say, feeling that familiar thrill of panic at his own response, the very thought of driving himself in a car nearly putting him over the edge. But that panic suddenly gave way to anger at himself. He couldn’t avoid driving forever. He couldn’t let one moment, from almost a year ago, control his life anymore.

_ He wanted to buy a car. _

“You’ve come to the right place.” She was brunette and leggy, the very type he would go for  _ before _ . He watched her edge around the front of the car to get in the passenger door and sit at his side. 

“This is my personal favorite.” She gestured to the car they were sitting in, a sleek black thing with light, leather interior - the very same as his car  _ before _ . Roger studied the dash, opening and closing the gear box. His hands gripped the steering wheel, right hand only shuddering slightly. 

“What do you think?” Brunette was watching him carefully.

He blinked behind the sunglasses, still trying to hide. “I don’t know.”

“Well, take your time, there’s no pressure.”

That was different. She seemed to be genuinely kind. And patient. Honestly, he wished Brian and John were here. Let him just sit in the car while they talked to her instead. He just wanted to be alone.

“Can we just sit in here a minute?” He heard himself ask.

She was watching him carefully, but nodded. “Is everything alright?”

“My friend died.”  _ What in the hell was he talking about? _

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” He met her gaze, reading the surprise and sympathy there. 

“Last year, just about. He drowned. But I’m all broken up about it still, you know?”  _ Why was all of this pouring out now?  _ Freddie hadn’t drowned, in the physical sense. But drowning in fame and arrogance and Paul’s ideas was exactly what had happened. 

Freddie  _ had _ died.  _ His _ Freddie, his best friend, had died. It was a constant thorn in his side, a reminder with every pinch when he breathed, with every failed attempt at using his right hand, and the panic that rose up in a vehicle. Freddie was dead, an imposter stood in his place. And apparently this car saleswoman was the one who was privileged to hear him unload all his  _ shit _ .

“That’s terrible. So sad.”

“I think about it every day, and I just don’t understand it. I guess it’s better just not to think about it, right? Just force it out of your mind.”

“Sure. I can understand that.”

_ Bless her. _

“I’m Roger.” He reached his hand out to shake hers. “Sorry about all of this.” He gestured to himself, embarrassment coloring his neck and racing up his face.

She told him her name, which he instantly forgot, but she was still smiling at him so he felt that was a good sign. 

A good interaction outside of his house. His therapist would be over the moon. 

“I want this car.”

“This one?”

“Yeah, but I want  _ this  _ car. Okay? The one we’re sitting in.”

“Oh. The floor model?” She blinked at him, glancing around at one of her coworkers with a smile. The man in the oversized suit was watching them curiously from his desk.

_ They think I’m crazy. Maybe I am. _

“Yes. Can I have it?” He took off his dark glasses to look at her fully.

She met his eyes for only a moment, before busying herself with her clipboard and paperwork. “Of course.”

Roger felt himself relax. He’d done it. He’d actually followed through and done something for  _ once. _ As far as he remembered, anyway. 

“Do you know her?”

Roger opened his eyes he hadn’t even realized were closed. He lifted his head from the leather seat to look where Brunette was pointing. 

“Mary?”

* * *

“Jim? It’s Brian…”

John tuned out Brian as he spoke quietly into the phone. His mind was turning and twisting. Where would Roger go? Running over the past few months in his mind, there were seldom any moments where the drummer was truly on his own.

The cafe proved to be less than fruitful. By the time they’d gone out and made their way across the street, the crowd of people had cleared out. And honestly, what did he think? He’d  _ seen _ Roger heading down the street from the window. It wasn’t like he would double back. 

_ Why _ had Roger even left the hospital in the first place alone? Brian and John had been having long discussions about Roger’s memory. Dr. Hansen had finally put a name to it -  _ short term memory loss _ . And while things had been on the upward slope, today was a prime example about how easily life could drop out on them.  _ Again _ .

A hand on his arm made him jump, distracted as he was scanning the sidewalk for a flash of blonde hair.

“Jim’s on it. He doesn’t know who leaked the story but he’ll take care of it.” Brian’s voice was calm. “He also suggested we take Roger away for a while.” Brian continued, ignoring the fact that John hadn’t responded.

That got John’s attention. “Take him away? As if we haven’t been keeping him inside for the last six months?” His tone was bitter, but defeated. “He’s not going to like that.”

“I know.” The pair of them walked down the sidewalk quickly. 

“Where would we go?” John pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck a little higher, trying to ignore the curious stars of a few pedestrians. Brian’s hair always gave them away. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling his fingers brush against something solid. He pulled Roger’s small orange pill bottle out and looked up in exasperation. 

_ Give me strength _ .

“I was thinking, the farm.” Brian stared at the bottle, concern furrowing his brow.

John stuffed the bottle back in his pocket as they walked in silence for a moment. Then, “I’m not going to be the one to tell him.” 

Brian let out a laugh at John’s comment, loud enough to draw attention from a few strangers. They didn’t stare for long, luckily. “He likes you most, Deaky.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

It felt good to joke around like this, even in the midst of their newest crisis. John had to keep up the repetition in his head that Roger was an adult - a brain damaged, hot headed adult - but an adult nonetheless. He could take care of himself, the past few weeks had proved that a bit.

They rounded a corner only to nearly slam into a slight figure. John instinctively reached out to catch her as she stumbled, strawberry blonde curls brushing his face as she leaned into him.

“I’m so sorry..” She began, her voice breathless.

“Are you alright...Mary?” His eyes suddenly focused on her face, a smile breaking across as he recognized her.

“Deaky? Brian!” She reached out to John, throwing her arms around him and pulling Brian in as well, in a sort of group hug.

Brian smiled at her warmly, “What are you doing out here?” 

“Actually, I was looking for you.”

“You were?”

“I  _ think _ I just saw Roger.” She glanced between the two, confusion clear on her features. 

Brian and John shared a look. “Where?” They asked, almost unanimously. 

She noted their tone, the stress suddenly evident, throwing an arm out behind her to point up the block. “What’s going on?” She asked. John pushed past her, gently, as Brian explained the situation. They all headed to where Mary had pointed, John leading slightly, everything in him screaming to run. To hurry.

_ Hurry _ .

He needed to  _ see. _

And there he was.

They found him through a window of a car dealership seated in one of the cars, looking more content than they’d ever seen him. And if John didn’t know better, the drummer looked almost like his old self. Suave, confident, ever the ladies man. He flashed a smile at the brunette saleswoman, who was looking more and more flustered.

John was frozen at the window, flipping between relief and irritation. Brian was standing behind him, a relieved exhale gusting out. “What a bastard.”

Mary was moving next to them in an instant, grabbing the wide door and throwing it open to head inside.

They watched as Roger stared towards them, recognition coming slow. “Mary?” He blinked, suddenly also noticing John and Brian right behind her.

“Roger?” She took a step towards him, nervously. As if any movement would send him running.

“Hey, what’s happening guys?” The drummer was staring at them, confusion evident as he stepped out of the car. “What are you doing here?”

“We’ve been looking for you, mate.” 

There was a moment of silence that followed, Roger’s eye getting a faraway look in them as he realized he’d missed something. But as soon as it happened, it was gone the very next second. “What do you think of my new car, Bri?” Roger couldn’t help the smile that stretched across his features.

“New car? You sure?” John choked out, completely stunned. Apparently, only himself and Brian had remembered the conversation a week prior about how Roger would  _ never _ drive again, damnit. His words, not theirs.

Brian looked towards the saleswoman who was standing awkwardly to his right. “Hi, Brian May. How are you?”

“Brian May. As in the guitarist of  _ Queen _ ? You didn’t mention  _ that _ , Roger.” She looked completely scandalized.

“Well, because that stuff doesn’t matter. Not really, you know?” He mumbled, putting his sunglasses back on. He rubbed his right hand nervously. Brian was gracious, introducing the rest of them to the poor girl - who’s name was  _ Emma _ .

“I grew up on your music. I love it. So, thank you.” She was trying not to gush, but they could all see her excitement.

“Okay. Why don’t we get the papers started?”

* * *

Roger pulled the keys out of the ignition, breathing in that new car smell. The roar of the engine cut off instantly, filling the garage with the leftover ringing in his ears. And for that one sweet moment, he could pretend everything was okay. 

But it wasn't. It  _ really _ wasn’t. 

Someone had printed details of his accident, photos of him recovering, speculations about his  _ relationship _ with Freddie, scandal of their band breaking up. It was all a load of bollocks, and he’d never felt so violated.

He understood why they needed to get away, but it didn’t make it easy.

John and Brian had mercifully given him the night to himself to pack. They didn’t know how long they’d be at the farm, and frankly, Roger didn’t give a damn. His life wasn’t his own anymore, no use getting teary over it.

So why were his eyes burning?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more for your reading pleasure :) One more on the way! Just trying to get these last few build up chapters out of the way for the GOOD stuff.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing :)

They had left close to midnight to avoid the reporters that were still on the hunt for a Roger Taylor photograph. John didn’t want to take any chances with his mental health –  _ I’m perfectly healthy, Deaky  _ \- nor were they risking word ever getting out of their opinion of the news break -  _ it was all a load of bollocks _ . 

At least not until they’re ready. Which they might never be.

And it didn’t matter, really, anyways. No one wanted to talk about the accident, least of all him. And especially not to  _ them _ .

Brian hovered so close that Roger had banged into him twice and despite his irritated frowns, the guitarist hadn't budged until they were safely secluded in the little farmhouse with John trailing behind them. John switched the little table lamp on for them as they dumped their bags at their feet, not caring where they landed.

"Home sweet home." Brian muttered, finally giving Roger more than an inch of breathing room to lay across the entire couch, arm going over his eyes. He looked completely wrecked. Roger had a sudden realization that Brian hadn't been sleeping – an apparent plight of the overactive mind of an astrophysicist with an added bonus of being an empathetic mother hen. Brian’s shirt hung from his shoulders in a way Roger had never seen before.

“Bri.” He reached out and placed his hand over Brian’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. “You should get some sleep. In a real bed."

Brian laughed bitterly, his head shaking. "I’m  _ not _ moving another inch." He moved his arm down to look Roger in the eyes more clearly. “Haven’t been sleeping all that well, anyways.”

Sympathy rose in his chest. He knew what that was like. Roger couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept peacefully but there wasn’t a problem with his memory when it came to the frequent, intense nightmares, unfortunately.

John dumped himself into the recliner across from them, arms and legs splaying out awkwardly. He looked as exhausted as Brian. Roger was surprised to feel the amusement bubble up inside. “Shit you guys look terrible.” He laughed, watching John’s face screw up in annoyed exhaustion. 

John’s tone was sharp, but his eyes were playful. “Try babysitting a hot headed man child sometime and then see if you look this good after.” 

Roger couldn’t help it. He laughed, the humor bursting out of him hysterically, that kind of deep belly laugh that rocked his whole body. He felt his knees weaken, allowing his body to fall back to land on Brian. The guitar player swatted at him, trying to hold back a laugh of his own. John was honest-to-god giggling, mouth stretched in a closed mouth grin, but utter exhaustion kept his eyes closed. Brian lifted his legs suddenly to roll the drummer off of him, Roger landing on the floor with a curse. And as suddenly as the amusement washed over him, it was gone. Roger rolled to his back on the scratchy carpet, staring above him at the wooden beams above him, and in the quiet, he allowed his eyes to slip closed.

* * *

Freddie groaned suddenly, curling into himself slightly as he clutched at his stomach. He was panting, winded and couldn't help but notice how incredibly taxed he felt after that last verse, cut short by his rebelling stomach. The studio was hazy, suffocating, and hot. “Sorry. That was - ”

“Fantastic.” Paul finished with a smirk, barely noticing the sudden change in the singer though the glass. Freddie didn’t feel particularly proud of his performance, but judging by the applause of his team on the other side of the box, he hadn’t botched it completely.

_ It doesn’t matter _ .

Freddie rolled his eyes at Paul’s enthusiasm, and instantly wrenched them shut at the sudden dizziness. He felt his body lean back to sit on the stool behind him, hands shakily taking off the headphones. They’d been at it all day and his throat felt scratchy, a headache his constant companion. 

“You alright?” Paul asked over the mic, shooting him a curious glance. The Irishman stood up, ready to bolt into the room, and Freddie felt panic wash over him at the thought.

“Yes. M’fine dear.” He assured his team who were all watching him curiously, locking eyes with Paul. He took a few deep breaths, waiting for the nausea to subside. “Just need a moment, I think.” He threw out a flimsy excuse about needing to use the restroom, the need to be alone suddenly overwhelming him. He ignored Paul trying to catch his eye as he pushed passed the group of musicians on his way out the studio and into the restroom just across the hall, locking the door behind him.

Freddie gripped the sink, hands trembling as he turned on the faucet. The cool water grounded him for a moment, but did nothing for his rebelling stomach. Freddie caught a look at his face in the mirror and felt a deep chill spread through his veins, his muscles shaking uncontrollably, causing his upset stomach to clench with each spasm painfully. He was pale, much paler than he usually was and there was a thick sheen of sweat covering his slender frame. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced than usual. He looked terrible.

_ Sick. _

Freddie’s chest tightened suddenly, a deep cough rocking his frame. His hands washed away the specks of blood he knew were there down the sink without even looking. The blood was as constant as his headache. And something he was  _ not _ interested in worrying about. Why did he have to feel  _ so _ sick?

_ You already know. _

* * *

It should not have surprised him when Mary let herself into the farmhouse two days later. She had a crate of beer under one arm and a bag full of spicy takeout dangling from the other hand.  "I figured you'd all be hungry." She placed the food down on the counter in the kitchen and started to rummage for plates. Brian kissed her cheek in greeting as he passed, setting the table.

John immediately started digging through the bags of food, eyes brightening at his favorites. “An angel, you are.” He very nearly moaned. Mary finished unpacking the meal and pushed Roger's portion across the table. He had no appetite but obediently picked up a fork and plastered  on a smile, stomach heaving at the thought of food.

Mary's eyes didn’t match her smile. Something was off and it was making his stomach turn more than dinner. "How are you?" 

"I'm fine." Mary smiled stiffly. "I should be asking you the same thing." She placed a glass of water down in front of him and nodded pointedly at it. Roger knew to pick his battles and obeyed the silent command.  "I’m going to go see him." She said it almost casually, as if it didn't completely rock their world.

John coughed, nearly spilling his beer. Brian found his voice first, while the rest of them fell into stunned silence. “You’re what?” He asked.

She hesitated, then looked up at Brian, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I can’t seem to get past Paul these days by phone, so I’m going to Munich.” 

Roger closed his eyes as a sudden wave of nausea washed over him. He didn’t want to hear it. Any of it. The last few months were still festering, wounds barely being held together by a string and tape. He wasn’t strong enough.

“I almost did.” Brian nearly whispered. John looked up questioningly. “You were in surgery for your pacemaker. And things weren’t looking good.” He glanced at Roger, only catching his eyes for a second before the blonde looked away. 

“Damn it, Brian. I  _ knew _ it.” John was glaring at Brian, but it didn’t hold any real malice. He huffed in annoyance.

“Yeah, alright Deaky. I’m not sorry, though. Paul wouldn’t let me speak to Freddie. In fact, he lied right to me that Fred wasn’t there.”

“How could you possibly know that?” John asked.

“I heard him. Freddie. He was asking who was calling. I think Paul is keeping him in the dark.”

“Maybe.” John cursed, glancing over to Mary. “I don't think it's a good idea.”

"I have to do something." Mary looked at them earnestly. "I'm not asking you to come with me. And I'm not asking permission, I just thought you should know."

They sat in silence for a few moments, lost in their own thoughts until Roger shoved away from the table, drawing all the attention to him suddenly. He couldn't sit another minute, or his heart would explode. The nausea he'd felt most of the day and throughout dinner was rearing it's ugly head as conversation revolved around Freddie. He could feel their eyes on his back, burning. His heart was pounding, chest tightening as he headed to his room, slamming the door behind him.

He wasn’t strong enough.

* * *

Minutes passed as Brian hesitated outside of Roger's door. It was reasonable to expect him to be sleeping, but Brian was used to the drummer who woke at the slightest sound, if he was sleeping at all. Years of living together had made them very in tune with each other's sleeping habits. There were times when his memory would replay those weeks in the hospital on loop, tormenting him for hours on end. Fear for his friend’s health would overwhelm him all hours of the night. And that’s why he found himself outside Roger’s bedroom at some godforsaken hour, to check if the nightmares were just that.

Brian hadn’t been sleeping well that night - really at all the last few months. But after Mary let them in on her plan to see Freddie, Brian’s anxiety had taken a vicious turn. Roger shutting himself in his room shortly after and ignoring them all didn't help. They'd given him the rest of the night to himself, let him blow off steam. Mary left shortly after dinner, promising to phone them when she got back from Germany. Brian was dreading that call as much as he anticipated it.

Brian cracked the door, wincing as it squeaked, but then he saw Roger clearly fast asleep. The man himself looked as if his body had simply given up, sprawled across the bed out of pure exhaustion. But he was breathing - not gasping for air, not grabbing his chest in agony, no dead eyes staring lifelessly, Brian too late to do anything….. 

Roger let out a little snore and buried his face into the pillows.

Embarrassment and shame warred within Brian as he slowly backed out of the room. Roger never reacted well to having his privacy invaded for no reason, let alone being woken up  _ ever _ , and Brian couldn’t claim to be concerned with Roger's health if he then chose to interrupt his rest. 

He’d never hear the end of it.

Brian’s hand was on the doorknob when he heard sudden sounds of distress. His heart plummeted, hands clammy as he turned and took a hesitant step closer.

Roger’s brow was furrowed in distress, hands now gripping the pillow. His body, though curled tightly in on itself, was tense as if ready to flee. As if he had been crying.

He reached down and gently placed his hand on Roger's arm, ready to carefully shake him back to consciousness.

Instead, the second his hand touched Roger's skin, an elbow caught him right in the nose. 

"Holy shit, Bri?" Roger scrambled back, shoving the sheets down. He didn’t move to turn the light on.

"Hey." Brian said from behind his hands, massaging his sore nose and checking for blood. "Alright?"

"Alright?" Roger echoed. "Are you out of your damn mind? What the hell are you doing here at…four am? Shit."

Brian sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly sheepish. "I needed to talk to you." 

"At four in the morning." Roger said flatly.

He bristled. "Yeah. It can wait. Sorry to bother you." Brian made a quick break for the door but was stopped when Roger moved to stand between Brian and his target.

"About what?" He asked, crossing his arms.

"Hmm?" 

Roger rolled his eyes. "What was so important that you came in here in the middle of the night to tell me?" 

Brian opened his mouth, then closed it quickly. "I…don’t remember." He lied. In the last almost year since the accident, there had been vast opportunities for emotional conversation and heartfelt communication. But with each, Roger was less and less responsive to Brian and John’s need for vulnerability. Brain didn’t want to drive that wedge home too early on, especially with how things had been earlier. 

Roger blinked his eyes slowly, obviously questioning Brian’s sanity, as Brian himself was doing, but he couldn’t sleep himself and had been unable to shake off the feeling that Roger was in need. "Right. Okay then. You want tea or something?" He must have seen something in Brian’s eyes, as the drummer didn’t dismiss him right out.

Brian nodded, moving to the door once again and turning to wait for Roger as he opened it. Roger stretched behind him, shoulders popping as he let out a breath in a gust. In his normal clothes, it was almost impossible to tell just how much weight Roger had lost since his accident - how much weight had yet to return. Now, shirtless, wearing only loose sweatpants, Brian didn’t find it hard to count the number of his ribs. He had lost mass in his shoulders as well, whittled away by sickness and inactivity to bone and sinewy muscle. He’d made progress, of course, since he didn’t look as bad as he had right out of hospital, and the fact that Roger didn’t scramble to put a shirt on in front of them anymore was testament to that. Brian knew he couldn’t help it really, when he forgot to eat as often as he did. Memory problems were a bitch. 

They made their way to the kitchen. He took a seat on a barstool and drummed his fingers against the countertop, trying not to stare at Roger as he paused by the cupboards, lost in thought and absently rubbing a hand up and down his sternum. A moment later, he turned to look at Brian. “Yeah, I’ll be honest I don’t know where to start here, mate.” He chuckled softly. 

Brian took pity on his friend, clapping him on the back as he shuffled around him. This was his fault after all - the very least he could do was make the man some tea. Roger took his seat while Brian filled the kettle, turning over in his mind what he should say. 

“How are you?” Was what he settled for, brilliantly. 

Roger blinked at him before letting out a laugh unexpectedly, grabbing his chest as he did. “I’m not going to keel over, Brian, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He rubbed his eyes.

Sudden emotion welled up inside Brian as he turned around swiftly to busy his hands at filling cups with boiling water and tea bags. Roger knew him too well, whether he remembered that or not. “I know that.”  He set Roger’s tea in front of him - a creamy, sugary mess - and dropped into the seat next to his friend before taking a sip. He blinked away the burning in his eyes when he felt Roger’s eyes on him.  He took a sip to steady his nerves. “Are you okay?”

The drummer was silent, staring down at his hands as he processed. "I'm fine."

Brian waited.

"It's okay if you're not. Mary kind of dropped a bomb on us." He tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat as Roger's face screwed up in anger.

"It doesn't matter." He met Brian's eyes, gesturing at his scars. "A lot of shit happened this year. The band broke up. Fred left. I got hurt. And Mary going to Munich doesn't change a thing." He paused to take a drink. "I'm _tired,_ Brian. I don't care anymore. Just once, can we please not talk about it?"

“You know, you two aren’t as quiet as you think.” John cut in suddenly, making them both jump. “I’m just mad to not have been included.” He dragged a stool away from the bar little more force than necessary to prove his point.

Once he'd caught his breath, Roger laughed. “Yeah, sorry mate. It’s very exclusive.” 

“Invite only.” Brian put on his  _ holier than thou _ expression, voice acquiring a lofty tilt.

John sent a dishrag flying across the counter, smacking Brian square in the face as they all erupted into laughter. Roger held his chest, enjoying the carefree moment, the calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait between chapters. I'll be posting a couple major chapters this week. Please enjoy and leave a comment! I've missed you all :)


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie finds out the truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here! Thank you for all your patience. I hope you aren't disappointed :)

Munich was as dreary as London, rain pouring down in droves, and Mary was glad to be in a cab, her emotions too close to the surface to be driving herself. In her bag, the magazine that spelled out the entire story of the accident.

Over the past  _ almost _ year, Mary had tried to keep her distance. She’d given up her right to an opinion, a  _ claim _ , over Freddie’s decisions the night they’d broken up. And though they remained close friends, she’d be kidding herself to think they were on anything resembling the same plane. 

Freddie had called her, the night he’d fled to Munich. She remembered that conversation with a pang. He’d been furious, voice husky as he recounted the conversation with the band. She’d cried with him, knowing he was regretting the entire thing even though he didn’t say it, but also knowing he was the most stubborn man alive and would go through with it regardless.

_ And look how it all turned out for you. _

Her heart was in her throat as the car pulled into the driveway of Freddie’s place. She gave a slight breath of relief at the lack of cars parked out front, all but one.

Which meant Paul wasn’t here.

_ Freddie was alone. _

“I’ll just be a moment. Will you wait out here?” She reached forward to hand the cabbie a few bills, then walked out into the downpour. Dim lights were shining from the big bay windows as Mary walked up the porch steps. One hand was held up to knock when something caught her eye.

In the front room, Freddie was lying on the red couch fast asleep. But it didn’t look restful. 

Mary forced the lump in her throat back down, eyes burning at the sight of her once-love. 

He looked thin. 

_ Sick _ .

She knocked lightly on the window until he stirred.

He blearily lifted his head, grimacing slightly. At once, their eyes met and he snapped into complete awareness. Shocked, Freddie stood and rushed to the door, wrenching it open quickly.

Not trusting her own voice, she whispered. “Hi.”

The embrace left her breathless. His arms had always felt like home, and now was no exception. She held her arms around his frame tightly, slightly alarmed at how skinny he felt. He pulled her into the hallway, closing the door behind them without letting her go.

“Why did you come all this way?” He pushed her away slightly to meet her eyes, his were wide with shock at seeing her. And one look almost undid everything she came here to say. She had to be strong. 

“I just haven’t heard from you in so long, and I phoned and phoned and…” She slowly walked into the front room and trailed off, seeing it littered with half full glasses on every surface. Ash trays filled with cigarettes, the smoke lingering in the air, half empty glasses of alcohol, lines of white powder dusting most surfaces. Her nose burned.

“No, no. I’ve been working, that’s all.” Freddie was close behind her, one hand reaching out tentatively - _ desperately.  _ She studied him as he spoke, just a shell of his former self.

Mary felt nauseous. “Freddie, you’re burning the candle at both ends.” It was so much worse than she’d imagined.

“Yes, but the glow is so divine.” His words stuttered and tripped. “Being human is a condition that requires a little anesthesia.” She watched his face flush with shame as he looked at the ground, avoiding the drugs surrounding them. She’d never seen him this low.

“I miss you.” Was all that came out. 

He met her eyes at once, seeming to come to life as if those three words were all he needed to hear to come back to them.“I miss you. I miss you so much. I have to finish this second album but I need you.” 

She smiled at his words, placing one gentle hand on his cheek as he rushed to get words out. “Stay. Stay here with me. Just you and me. I need the love of my life.”

Mary couldn’t name the emotion that swelled inside. Those words were the ones she’d longed to hear him say. He still made her heart race, he still held a piece of it. But disappointment and resentment were never far behind, and burned inside her. “Freddie. What about Queen? Jim told me he’s been trying to contact you about Live Aid but you won’t take his calls.” She watched a thousand emotions flick across his face, waiting with bated breath for another excuse. 

“What’s Live Aid?”

She froze. “You haven’t heard?” Her eyes widened in confusion. “Freddie, it’s the biggest concert there’s ever been or ever will be. It’s for the famine in Africa.”

His face darkened almost instantly. “Well, perhaps Paul thought it wasn’t a good idea.” He cut in. “A distraction from my work. That’s what's important, that I finish this album.” She watched him wring his hands, looking slightly panicked. “Stay with me, darling, and I’ll be alright.” He gripped her arms.

“Freddie…”

The sound of the front door behind her had her pushing away from Freddie, turning around with dread. 

“Freddie! Sorry we’re late.” Paul was holding the door, rain darkening this hair and puddling on hardwood. Several others rushed in past him, drunkenly dripping water and laughing obnoxiously. Paul’s jaw dropped in shock at her presence, but screwed back into perfect calm in less than a second. 

Only she seemed to notice. She felt the beginnings of defeat settle in her heart.

“Mary. What a pleasant surprise.” He came up behind her, reaching a hand on her back. It took everything for her not to jerk away. “I wish I knew you were coming to stay. I’d have scrubbed the place.”

Mary tried not to shy away at the look in Paul’s eyes. They were sharp, demanding, and furious all concealed under that polite facade. Freddie was distracted by the group of strangers piling into his front room, helping themselves to the alcohol waiting on the table. One look in Paul’s eyes and she knew she was hopeless.

“Actually I’m not staying.” Mary shoved around Paul angrily, leveling him with a nasty glare.

Freddie snapped towards her, eyes focused and panicked. “Wait. Mary, wait. Don’t go.” She felt him shove up behind her at the door, hands reaching out to stop her. She paused before opening the door, spinning around to face him before she lost her final nerve. 

“I want to know one thing.”

His eyes were misty. “Anything.” 

Mary took a steadying breath, hating the way her voice trembled. “When you found out about Roger, why didn’t you come?”

Freddie was once again staring at her, completely blank. “Roger?” His brows came together in confusion. His dumbfounded expression only made Mary more furious.

“How could you? I, of all people,  _ knew _ what he meant to you.” It was no secret between them that Freddie cared for Roger a little more than the blonde knew. “You could have phoned, at the very least.”

“Mary. I haven’t any idea what you’re going on about.” Freddie’s face darkened again, his tone dismissive at her jab. 

“The accident? Remember that? Or was your work more important than as well?” 

“What...an accident?”

“Paul told us you knew. That you couldn’t come.” She crossed her arms, glaring over his shoulder at Paul the eavesdropper. The other man stood down the hall, expression on his face terrible as he listened to them, face screwing up in silent rage. Fear shivered up her back, holding her in place.

“Paul didn’t….Roger had an accident?” 

Horror welled up inside, bubbling in her chest. She felt it in the pit of her stomach, the lump lodging itself in her throat, the burning in her eyes. “Oh my…” Mary covered her mouth, eyes wide, glancing back and forth between Paul and Freddie.

Her knees wobbled, nearly giving out. Freddie’s hands caught hold of her arms, steadying her under the onslaught of emotions. 

“Is he all right?” He might have looked panicked before, but it paled in comparison to what he was experiencing now. He brought his hands to cup her face, wiping away tears. “Please. Is he alive?”

“Yes, yes but Freddie, you need to come with me.”

“What?”

“Freddie. Please. You don’t belong here.”

“I don’t belong with  _ them _ either. I can’t go back after what I said, after what I’ve done.” He allowed her to drag him outside in her panic, words pouring out like the rain. “Mary I’m frightened.”

She paused in front of the cab, still gripping his hand with all her strength. “Freddie, you don’t need to be. Because no matter what, you are loved. By me, by Brian, Deaky….Roger. Your family. It’s enough. And these people, they don’t care about you. Paul doesn’t care about you.”

“I can’t.” His voice was shaking, tears mirroring her own. “I’m not strong enough.”

With shaking hands, she pulled the magazine out of her bag and held it out to Freddie wordlessly.

He took it, eyes widening at the cover story, when he felt Mary’s arms wrap around him once more. “You don’t belong here, Freddie. Come home.” 

* * *

Roger sat on the little couch in the studio, a hand on his chest and another resting on his belly as he breathed. The confidence and bravado from that morning had evaporated the moment he was alone with the kit - John and Brian not here to distract him. And to be fair, it was what he’d wanted. To try this on his own, no added pressure. But he felt the pressure anyway, building in his chest and lodging in his throat. He let his head fall back on the couch cushions, trying to focus on the way his hands rose and fell with each breath. It was the only thing that really grounded him.

_ Quit stalling. _

The voice in his head was starting to sound a lot like Freddie.

Roger heaved his body up, breathing through the head rush and climbed up the risers before he lost his nerve. His hands immediately found the drumsticks, left hand twirling it automatically. His right hand faltered in the protective brace, and so did his confidence.

_ Just do it. _

Irritation boiled in his gut. He started off with something simple, the first few counts of  _ In The Lap of the Gods  _ and the irritation melted away as he played. 

His hand was fine. It was actually responding.

The drums always cleared his mind, improved his mood. And all the fear that had kept him from trying since the accident seemed stilly. He could do it. He pounded out the rest with his usual fervor, taking on his solo from _Liar_ like he'd never stopped playing. 

His attention was suddenly pulled to the booth, where John was watching with a stupid smile on his face. Roger paused to give him the finger.  "Stop smiling, Deaky."

John put on an expression of exaggerated devastation. "I just never thought I'd see the day." He sounded like he'd been weeping, wiping a nonexistent tear from his eye. 

"While you're just standing there, make yourself useful and get me something to drink. And an ice pack."Roger couldn't help but smile, trying to steady his own breathing. His heart was galloping, chest _just_ beginning to get tight. And his right arm was on fire, but he'd never felt so alive.

* * *

“Freddie! What are you doing? You’ll catch your death.” Paul’s voice had a dangerous tone to it. And while his voice had once been Freddie’s lifeboat in a life seemingly spiraling out of control, Freddie now couldn’t help but  _ see _ , his blood was boiling, heart pounding.

Mary was watching Freddie, face hardening at Paul’s voice behind them. She sat in the cab, waiting. “I’ll be right behind you, my dear. I just need to finish this.” He closed the door of the car, heart going with Mary as it disappeared down the driveway.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Live Aid?” Surprisingly, his voice was steady. And his fury only grew the longer Paul was silent behind him.

“The Africa charity gig? It’ll be an embarrassment. I didn’t want to waste your time.”

_ That’s not your decision _ . “You should have told me.”

“Freddie, come inside now and have a drink. I can explain.”

“You’ve been manipulating me all this time. You’ve been lying to me.” Freddie didn’t turn around, fixing his eyes on the rippling puddle in front of him. He heard Paul take a step towards him.

“No, that’s not true. I’m only trying to protect you.” The Irishman’s voice was chastising, like Freddie was a small child forgetting his place.

“From who?”

“From  _ them _ . You said it yourself! They’re threatened by you,  _ afraid  _ of you. Of your success. Why do you think they haven’t reached out? But me? I’ve never been afraid of you, Freddie Mercury. I embraced you. I’m the  _ only _ one who ever accepted you for who you really are.”

Freddie turned that over in his mind, tears mixing with the rain. How had he let his life completely out of his control? He thought back through the past year, flowing through his mind like scenes in a film. Roger and him sharing a cigarette in secret behind the drum risers, Deaky letting loose and dancing on a table on a drunken dare, Brian’s tea - he made the best tea - and the long conversations late at night about the cosmos and their very existence. And in all of these moments, a darkness clouded his perception. He knew the darkness well, had confided in Brian about it, but suddenly it was like the sun finally broke through. It was obvious. Paul had been that darkness, poisoning him, isolating him,  _ killing _ him. It was Paul who had swooped in when Freddie had gone very and truly rotten to feast on what was left. It was despicable. 

“You’re out.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want you out of my life.”

“Because I’m the only one left, you're blaming me for everything?”

“I blame myself.”  _ And oh how he did.  _

“What have they ever done for you? Hm? I’m the reason that  _ you _ were offered a deal with CBS, not the band. I gave that to you. And I’m out? Just like that? After  _ everything _ we’ve been through? I’m the only one who has ever cared about you.”

Freddie whipped around and held up the magazine to Paul, eyes flaming. Paul took a step back, face shocked at the fury pouring out of the singer. “If you really cared,  how could you keep this from me?”

Paul stood in silence, face twisting in emotion.  _ Disdain. Anger. Jealousy. Fear. _

“We’re done.” 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger's perspective on the meeting in Miami's office

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping this helps to clear up some confusion! When I started this story, it truly was only meant to be a little teaser. Now that the majority of it is fleshed out, I will have to go back and rewrite the first chapter to have it flow a little easier.   
> Onward, I guess.

_ Roger Taylor, drummer of  _ Queen _ and suspected lover of Freddie Mercury, is on life-support after the car he was in was hit at a speed of more than 100mph according to the coroner's report released on Friday and he is “not expected to live.” Taylor was northbound on Main about 5:40 p.m., when a semi-truck ran a red light, crossed a median into oncoming traffic in the southbound lanes and hit his vehicle head-on. The truck driver sustained minimal injuries. Read the exclusive interview on Page 6.... _

Freddie remembered the story vaguely. It had been a large enough accident that the Munich stations covered it briefly. But no details were given - just a passing notice. His stomach churned at the memory of seeing a mangled piece of unrecognizable steel flash across the screen, thinking about how he at least wasn’t having as bad of a day as that poor sod. And to think….He couldn’t read anymore. And for them to  _ suggest _ that something more was going on between him and the blonde. It made him nauseous, but also made his poor, old heart soar.

He could breathe. 

He couldn’t think. 

The magazine gave a satisfying thud in the waste bin, as the singer slumped on the couch and tried to ignore the interview playing on the television. Paul was spinning a fantastic tale, really. But was it really just a tale? He didn’t know who he was anymore, and he didn’t have  _ time _ to try and figure it out.

* * *

_ “Miami.” _

_ “Freddie? How are you?” _

_ “I need to reconnect with the mothership.” _

_ “They don’t want anything to do with you.” _

_ “Maybe if you asked them, they would meet me. Tell them I want to talk. Just talk.” _

_ “Freddie. They’re very upset.” _

_ “I didn’t know.” _

_ “Didn’t know what?” _

_ “About Roger. About any of it." _

_ "Do they know this?" _

_ "No. I asked Mary not to say anything. I want a chance to explain myself." _

_ "I'll see what I can do."  _

* * *

Roger’s heart pounded with each blinking number on the elevator. The only sound was his not-so-subtle panting as they counted down to when they would see  _ him.  _ John placed a careful hand on the small of his back, but mercifully said nothing. Roger jammed his trembling hands into the pockets of his jacket, feigning indifference as Brian gave a quiet, “Shall we?” when the doors slid open.

Roger held several moments in his life that he believed were the  _ longest _ : the echo of absolute quiet just before he hit his cue on stage, when the band was traded for a solo career, the first tentative steps down a hospital hallway following surgery, the agonizing moments after an ICD shock before he could take a full breath.

The walk from the elevator left them all behind.

Miami’s office was the last door on the left, frosted glass masking the inside. Roger felt the static burst through his resolve, his body wanting to bolt or was it the anticipation of actually seeing his friend?

He couldn’t tell. 

“Wait!” He found his voice just as Brian reached for the door.

John’s hand found his back again, but Roger felt like he was being shoved, pressured, forced. He stepped back just out of reach, hands held out to give himself some space.

“You good, mate?” Brian paused. “We’re just here to talk.” He reminded Roger, kindly. 

“You don’t have to come in with us.” John met his eyes, noting the panic. “You could wait out here and-”

“No.” He snapped. “It’s not that. Just so we’re clear, I don’t want to talk about  _ this. _ ” Roger pulled his collar down slightly, displaying the angry, puckered skin. 

Brian’s eyes looked resigned, a look that hadn’t quite gone away from the night before. None of them had slept, instead spending the night talking about this moment. John was still upset, and had the full intention of ‘not speaking unless spoken to’ during the meeting. Roger didn’t know how to feel, didn’t know  _ what  _ to feel, and had frankly forgotten why they were even here twice on the drive over. When Jim called to tell them Freddie was back and wanted to see them, he’d been shocked. In the literal sense as much as emotional, and honestly his meds were the only thing keeping him standing today.

“Like you said, we’re just here to talk.” Roger pressed when they said nothing. “We are  _ not  _ here for this.” 

“One thing at a time. Right?” John murmured behind him. “If he makes a good enough case, we let him back in.” 

Roger nodded as Brian pushed open the door.

Freddie was nervously gripping the arms of his seat, almost like he was about to stand. The lanky guitarist paused at the doorway, hiding Roger from the singer’s sharp eye.

“Jim.”

“Hi, boys.”

Brian walked into the small office, pulling away from Roger quicker than he would have liked. He felt frustration and stress - a swarm of bees in his gut - partly at himself for feeling _ anything _ , and the other part at Freddie himself. Roger froze, unprepared for the onslaught of emotions at seeing Freddie. His broken heart pounded in his ears, chest constricting with each breath, but he felt actual  _ relief _ .

Freddie was  _ here. _

But the euphoria completely dissolved around him as despair swallowed him whole. And the only thought that echoed in his mind was  _ why now? _

Roger couldn’t keep the anger off his face as he sat on the single padded chair directly across from Freddie, ignoring the heat racing up his neck.

John entered last, and immediately placed himself on the couch by Brian after closing the office door behind him. The tension was thick, and Jim was the one to mercifully break it..

“If anybody wants any tea, coffee, bladed weapons, just ask.” Jim began, dryly. “So, who wants to go first?”

“I’ll start.”

Hearing Freddie’s voice jolted Roger, and he held his breath for a moment waiting for the pacemaker to do its job. But the shock never came.

Brian looked at Freddie warily, while John burned a whole into Miami’s floor with his eyes.

“I’ve been hideous. I know that, and I deserve your fury. I’ve been conceited, selfish. Well, an asshole basically.” 

Roger pulled his sunglasses off, finding his voice in a burst of irritation. “Strong beginning.”

Freddie stared back at him. “Look, I’m happy to strip off my shirt and flagellate myself before you. Or rather, I could ask you a simple question -”

“I’m good with the flagellation.” Roger cut him off, deadpan. His anger was familiar. He understood it. And he latched onto it, determined to hold it no matter what Freddie said next.

Avoiding eye contact with the drummer, Freddie glanced at the others. John had a fixed gaze on the carpet, but Brian sent him a slight  _ get on with it _ nod.

“What’s it going to take for you all to forgive me?”

Roger didn’t have an answer. His mind was caught in a battle between immediate forgiveness -  _ what’s done is done so get on with it  _ \- and the little voice in the back whispering  _ he left you  _ and  _ he never came.  _

“Is that what you want, Freddie? I forgive you.” Brian flicked his hands. “Is that it? Can we go now?”

“No.” Freddie’s tone was desperate and earnest. “I went to Munich. I hired a bunch of guys. I told them exactly what I wanted them to do and the problem was – they did it.” He looked up. “No pushback from Roger.” Freddie tried to meet his eye. “None of your rewrites. None of his funny looks.” John gave a subtle smirk at that. After a moment, “I need you. And you need me.”

John was determinedly still avoiding eye contact, looking more and more like he was completely ignoring the singer. But Roger could see that he had slightly relaxed, and no matter how much he wanted to deny it, he could feel his own heart softening towards his old friend.

Freddie hit Brian’s knee lightly, “Let’s face it. We’re not bad for four aging queens. So, go ahead. Name your terms.”

“Could you give us a moment, please, Fred?”

That was unexpected. Roger finally looked at him, feeling a pang of affection at watching Freddie awkwardly stand to leave the room. Roger could feel his eyes on him, and the drummer tried very hard to ignore the way Freddie faltered when he brushed by him, or the way his own heart stuttered.

_ A damn embarrassment. _

“What’d you do that for?” John finally broke free of his stress ball to raise an eyebrow at Brian. 

“I just felt like it.” 

Roger chuckled, his hand finding its way past his collar to rub the tightness out of his chest as they all relaxed. “What now? We’re letting him off the hook right?”

Brian shrugged, “That’s up to you.”

“Not really.” The blood left Roger’s face, pooling in his gut. “You’ve already decided. Both of you.”

“That’s not true.” John scrubbed a hand over his eyes wearily, like they’d had this conversation endlessly.

_ Which they had _ .

“I don’t think I've ever seen him so sincere, to be honest.” Brian said, after a moment. “I’m game to give it a go again.”

“Good for you.” 

“Oh, come on, Roggie.” John started, reaching a hand out. 

Roger bristled. “I believe he’s sorry for breaking up the band. Really, I do. He sounded more like his old self than he has in years. Like _our_ Freddie." He paused. "But it doesn’t change this.” He pulled his collar down slightly. “Let him talk his way out of  _ this _ later. But not here.”

“Any other conditions?” 

“Yeah. Don’t call me  _ Roggie _ .”

“It’s your name.” John laughed as Roger flipped him off.

After a beat. “That pisser Prenter is out.” Roger felt the familiar rage at the thought of that snake. “Or I am.”

“Obviously.”

Jim stood up behind him, pausing at the door. “I take it you’ve made up your minds, then?” 

“Just want him to sweat a bit.” Brian spoke for them, shrugging at Jim’s expression before the older man stepped out.

“You good, mate?”

Roger smirked at them. “Never better.”

“Want to tell the git he’s back in?” Brian nodded in the general direction of their long-lost singer. 

* * *

Roger watched as Freddie jammed his hands in his pocket when he passed back through the room towards his chair, directly across from Roger.

_ Staring.  _

Roger leaned forward as he spoke, shifting his jacket slightly to hide. “We decided…” Freddie was watching him with a heartbreaking expression and suddenly his mind went blank. “What did we decide?” 

“From now on, every song, no matter who wrote it, music, lyrics – it’s by  _ Queen _ . Not one of us, just  _ Queen _ . All the money, all the credits, split four ways evenly.” John said, calm and concise.

_ Bless you, Deaky. _

“Done.”

“We have a problem with the people around you.” Roger stared at Freddie, challenging. The drummer braced himself for any number of excuses to pour out of Freddie’s mouth. The same excuses that broke his heart over and over for years - constantly second pick.

“Paul is out. I fired him.”

_What?_

Roger’s stomach dropped at Freddie’s confession. His chest tightened, a burning ache from over his heart, and suddenly the shock he’d been waiting for all day made itself known. He couldn’t breathe. His body sank into the chair without him really feeling it, hands shaking. It was a miracle really that no one noticed.

“On what pretext?” John’s voice pulled him out of the dark, and he was finally able to focus enough and take a deep breath.

“Villainy.”

John glanced at Roger, quietly, as the conversation continued around them. “You okay?” He mouthed. 

_ Apparently he wasn’t so subtle.  _

Roger nodded curtly as he felt in his pocket for his medication, relaxing when he felt the familiar bottle, and made a mental note to take them after the meeting.

“What else?” 

“Bob Geldof.” Miami spoke up from behind his desk. “I called to convince him to squeeze you guys into the lineup for the Live Aid concert but he wants an answer now. You have to make a decision. Every ticket already sold. One hundred thousand people at Wembley, one hundred thousand people at JFK Stadium in Philadelphia, a global TV audience around the world of 150 countries, 13 satellites. The Olympics only had three.”

Roger lifted his hands in disbelief. “We haven’t played together in over a year. It’s kinda suicide to play again with my -” He gestured at his chest, then quickly stopped himself, wide eyes glancing at Freddie, who stared right back with an eyebrow raised in question. “You know,  _ and  _ for the first time in front of millions.” 

_ Shit. _

“Try over 1.5 billion. Who are these four dinosaurs? Where’s Madonna?” He glared at Brian’s mocking tone, but felt gratitude at the guitar player for pulling the discussion away from his slip up. 

“It’s a twenty-minute set. Everyone gets the same. Jagger, Bowie, Elton, McCartney, The Who, Led Zeppelin, Phil Collins, REO Speedwagon, Bob Dylan.”

“Certainly, good company.” John cut in, awestruck.

“Anybody who is anybody is doing this concert.”

“Look,” Freddie began, his voice taking on a desperate tone. “All I know is that if we wake up the day after this concert and we didn’t do our part, we’re going to regret it till the day we die.” His eyes had a faraway look in them, lips shifting nervously over his teeth. “Please.”

He was staring at the floor, hands shifting nervously, when Brian’s hand pulled the singer up into a tight embrace. Freddie couldn’t seem to hold back his emotions anymore. He buried his face into the guitarist’s shoulder, then lifted his head when he felt another hand on his shoulder. John’s own face had a few tears of his own and it wasn’t often that Deaky broke down like this. Freddie reached his arm out and pulled John into a hug.

“Thank you, dears.” He whispered, voice husky.

The trio parted, self-consciously wiping their eyes. “Getting soft in our old age.” Brian joked.

Freddie laughed.

Roger took the moment to ground himself. He pressed his fingers into the numb, scarred skin of his right hand, only letting go once the dull ache flared up into something sharper to help him focus. The relief was overwhelming, and he didn’t know how to deal with clashing feelings of hope and despair. 

Fred was back, but they still had a long way to go.

“Speak for yourself, mate.” Roger almost lost it when Freddie looked at him as if for the first time. He felt a blush creeping up under his scrutiny and pulled the singer to him, hiding his face. “I missed you so much. Don’t you dare leave us again.” Roger all but growled in his ear.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, darling.” Freddie touched the drummer’s face. His eyes drifted downward, catching the top blonde’s open shirt collar, and he couldn’t stop his hand from gently pulling the shirt aside to get a better look. The relief vanished, replaced by a fury so intense it left Roger breathless. It took everything in him not to shove the singer away, the echo of  _ he didn’t come _ in his mind.

_ I can’t do this _ .

Brian and John had gone silent behind them until Brian spoke. “It seems we have a bit to catch up on. Anyone fancy a drink?”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger and Freddie talk

Freddie basked in the quiet, not feeling the urge to fill this in-between moment as he usually would. The promise of alcohol didn’t hurt either, helping to relax them all a bit following the tense conversation in Miami’s office. And Freddie knew another hard conversation would follow, but for now he was content to simply  _ be  _ with his friends if they would have him. Walking through Roger’s familiar foyer was when he noticed them, pasted to nearly every wall. Colorful slips of paper, which at first glance looked as if Roger’s house were taken over by a mad man. But looking closer, Freddie’s heart sank.

Several  _ Did you take your meds?  _ notes on bannisters, cabinets, and convenient doors frames.  _ Eat something, Roggie! _ was tacked to the fridge. Reminders to: _ lock the door _ ,  _ turn the stove off,  _ and _ put on some pants _ covered most surfaces. 

Freddie laughed at that last one, until above the phone caught his eye:  _ Freddie isn’t coming back. _

He didn’t think it was possible to feel this heartache more and still survive and he nearly dissolved into a puddle of despair right there in the hallway. His eyes were burning with unshed tears -  _ and they would remain that way, damnit - _ as his hands reached out on their own, ripping the note from the wall and crumpling it instantly. 

“What are you doing?” Brian was suddenly behind him, making Freddie jump. 

Freddie swallowed around the swelling in his throat, eyes widening in panic. While John sat with Roger in the other room, Brian pulled Freddie further down the hall where it was more quiet, more private. “He’s not okay.” Freddie held up the crumpled note silently.

“He’s getting there.” Brian’s eyes flashed, taking the paper from his hands angrily. “What’s it matter to you?”

“That isn’t fair.” Freddie hesitated, trying to read his friend’s face. “Let me explain, Bri...” He began slowly.

Brian ignored him as he opened the note and read it, suddenly deflated. He looked more resigned than angry, but it still was burning in his eyes. “Tell it to him first.” He paused. “But, just know that we’re behind him all the way.” Brian warned, as he wound an arm through Freddie’s and pulled him down the hall to sit next to him on the plush couch, his long legs taking up most of the space, but Freddie didn’t mind. 

Deaky had his arm thrown out behind him, resting his hand on the seat and seemingly relaxed. His skinny frame took up most of the recliner as he stretched his legs out in front of him. Freddie could sense an added layer of unease in him. Like his nonchalant air was an act and he was ready for the bomb to drop.

_ They all were. _

Roger had been quiet, not saying much since leaving except for the occasional chuckle at one of their comments. Freddie had found it odd, but kept going back to his earlier impression of his friend when he’d walked into Miami’s office. Roger was different. Freddie watched the drummer lean forward with his arms on his knees and casually shoved one hand through the open collar of his shirt.  That wasn’t new.  Roger had been doing it for years.  Freddie couldn’t stop watching the drummer as he rubbed his chest absently. There was a noticeable twinge in his features until he caught Freddie’s stare. He pulled his hand away, and looked down uneasily, schooling his features. Roger swallowed the rest of his drink in nervous resignation, setting the glass on the little table nearby.  Freddie took a deep breath, gathering his nerves when the room went silent around him as he whispered. “I need to see something.” Freddie moved, suddenly needing to be as close to Roger as possible. The frontman knelt on the carpet in front of his friend and pressed his hands on the drummer’s knees. Roger very determinedly didn’t react, he just stared with heavy-lidded eyes. 

Gently,  _ slowly _ , Freddie lifted a hand to brush a blonde wave back from Roger’s face. He hadn’t noticed it before, the fading scar starting from under his shorter hair and cutting across his right eyebrow, and the second one framing his eye. He lightly ran his hands down Roger’s face, his  _ lips _ , his neck, catching the silent tears that fell from the blonde’s eyes. Freddie’s hands didn’t stop until he reached Roger’s collarbone, fingers brushing the golden skin just below.

“My love…how bad is it?” His voice was thick with emotion. 

Blue eyes shot open, sudden tears brushed away quickly. Calloused hands caught his own and pulled them down. Freddie shifted back on his knees, worried that he’d overstepped, but Roger didn’t look angry as he shifted to take off the leather jacket he’d been wearing and draped it over the arm of the sofa. He pushed up his sleeves of his shockingly bright shirt and brought Freddie’s hands to his right arm, running his fingers against the skin. A scar was ridged along the length.

“I can’t feel anything here.” Roger pointed to the back of his hand to an area that was puckered. Freddie, light as a feather, touched his hands. “Completely shattered up to here. And damn useless behind the kit.” Roger raised one scarred eyebrow, giving Freddie a wry grin in an attempt to lighten the room, but it fell flat.

When the drummer looked down again, Freddie’s attention was back to the matter at hand. “And this?” He felt Roger shiver when his fingers brushed against his chest. Roger slowly started undoing the buttons on his shirt, only wincing once as he eased it to sit just below his shoulders. 

It was worse than Freddie had imagined. And his mind had been spiraling since he’d first caught a glimpse in Miami’s office. The blonde was littered with smaller scars across his neck and right shoulder, some more faded than others. But that barely kept Freddie’s attention as much as the scar cutting right down the center, starting near his collarbone and running down his sternum. What he hadn’t seen earlier was how another slashed across the right side of his torso, and another ripped just under his left collarbone. They weren’t faded like the others. And from the way Roger tried to hide it, the pain hadn’t gone entirely.

“I didn’t know.” Freddie struggled to keep his voice even. There’s a lump in his throat and it’s suffocating. 

Roger leaned towards slightly to rest his arms on his legs, voice quiet. “What do you mean you didn’t know?”

Freddie felt his stomach fall out of his body. “No one told me.” He brought his hands up to cover his mouth, open in a silent sob. “About the accident. How could you keep this from me?”

Hands were suddenly on his wrists, trying to drag his hands off his face. “What are you talking about Freddie? Mary called you the night it happened.” John’s voice was right in his ear.

_ What? _

“When?”

“The night you left.” Brian whispered.

_ A year ago. _

Freddie was openly weeping now and couldn’t meet their eyes. “Paul.” Was all the frontman could spit out, sudden fury at his former lover. John had slid onto the ground beside him, watching warily.

“You were the one making comments about Fred being left in the dark.” John's voice was husky as they whispered around him. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”

Brian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Shit.”

Freddie ignored them, watching the blonde who was a statue on the couch, bouncing knee the only tell that Roger was still with them. “Please, you have to believe me, darling.” Freddie was begging. He placed desperate hands back on Roger’s knees to steady them. “Roger, I’m here now. I’m sorry.”

_ I love you _ .

Roger’s eyebrows screwed together, scar pulling slightly. His expression soured. “I can’t.” The blonde stood, pushing Freddie’s hands away roughly. He wretched the back door open and stalked out onto the lawn, hands going to his hair.  John looked like he was ready to follow him, but a look from Brian stopped him. Freddie turned to the other band members, searching their faces for explanation. He knew it would take time -  _ hopefully not more than he had left to give -  _ but he couldn’t help but feel a pang at Roger’s sudden turn.

“Mary brought me a magazine. I just couldn’t bear it. Please. Tell me what really happened?”

Brian and John exchanged another look, before the latter let out a breath. “The short version? After you left, a semi crossed into oncoming traffic after running a red light. Roger’s car flew 50 feet. They had to break him out of the wreckage.” John paused, voice breaking. “He slept twelve days.”

“It was touch and go.” Brian whispered.

“But he woke up.” Freddie pressed.

“He woke up.” 

“But?”

Brian held out the bright sticky note he’d kept from Freddie in the hall. “Like I said, he’s getting there.”

“He doesn’t remember.” Freddie glanced out the window, blonde hair appearing just on the edge of his vision.

“He remembers enough.” Brian said quietly.

“How can I fix this?”

“Talk to him.”

Freddie reached a shaking hand across to squeeze Brian’s arm. He cupped John’s cheek as he stood and pulled the back door open.  Roger stood stock still on the far end of his patio. Freddie took the steps slowly, walking the edge until he was just behind the drummer.  The blonde turned around, face deadly calm as he took in the singer, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

“We can’t change what’s happened.” Freddie broke the silence, looking him up and down. “You have to understand that.”

Roger was coiled tight, barely restrained. He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “Obviously.” Smoke billowed out between them.

“So, what do you want from me?” Freddie tried, frustrated _.  _ “I didn’t know about the accident. Please let me fix this.”

“Hmm.” Roger stared at him.

“You want me to, what? Apologize again?”

“I don’t know. Let’s try it out. See how it feels.” The blonde looked almost amused, a smirk pulling at his lips. But his eyes were sharp, furious, as he pressed the cigarette to his lips.

Freddie sucked in a breath, the weight of it all suddenly crushing him. “I let you down, love. And no matter what happens today, I’ll never forgive myself. You have to know how much you mean to me.” He turned to see Brian and John leaning against the outside railing, watching silently. “I don’t know how to ask forgiveness, but I know I don’t deserve it. It breaks me, to hear what you went through and I wasn’t around to stop it. Please know that it wasn’t me. And I’m sorry. Truly, sincerely sorry.”  When he focused back on the blonde, Roger was moving across the lawn away from them. Frustration replaced the guilt, driving it away like it had never sat in his heart, an anger he hadn’t felt since that night with Paul. Freddie felt the helplessness wash over him again, the same ever-present cloud from learning of his diagnosis. He didn’t have _ time _ for this. 

_ It just wasn’t fair _ .

The anger exploded out of him as he reached out to grab Roger’s arm. “Do you have any idea the kind of shit that I had to go through this last year? It wasn’t just hell for you. I’m trying to make it right, darling, so when you’re finished being an absolute git I’ll be inside.” 

Freddie’s head snapped back suddenly, neck cracking painfully as Roger’s fist smashed into his face. His nose throbbed under the shock as he staggered back. Roger watched him, a muscle jumping in his jaw. The frontman brought his hand to his face, checking for a broken nose with a wince. 

_ Bloody hell. _

Freddie threw all his weight into his shoulder, driving it straight into Roger’s middle. The drummer gave a satisfying grunt as the wind was knocked out of him. He felt Roger’s hands scramble to find purchase along his back as the pair crashed to the ground.  Roger twisted under him, letting a hand fly up at Freddie’s face again. Freddie’s nose twinged and he was surprised it wasn’t bleeding. He caught the drummer’s hand as it slammed towards him and used his other hand to drive Roger’s head into the ground, pushing him just out of reach of his flying fist.  Freddie’s world was spinning as they rolled on the grass, suddenly finding Roger behind him with his arms around his neck. Freddie pushed himself onto his hands and knees as Roger very nearly straddled him from behind. He tried to ignore the way Roger’s body felt against his back, and the heat rushing through his body was  _ definitely _ due to the fight.

_ Not the time, Fred  _ \- he couldn’t help himself. 

As Roger’s arms tightened around his neck, Freddie used the blonde’s momentum against him and rolled forward. Roger flew from his back and landed on his back with a huff. Freddie scrambled to his feet before he could be grabbed again.

“Wait! Just wait.” Freddie held his hands up in defense, but the drummer hadn’t moved from his spot on the grass. 

“What Fred?” Roger’s chest was heaving out his still opened shirt as he rolled his right shoulder. His blonde hair was sticking out and his face was thunderous, but Freddie had never seen anything more beautiful. He dropped his hands to rest at his sides. 

“Absolutely gorgeous. you are.” 

Roger hesitated, amusement flickering across his features, only to instantly be followed with irritation. “Stop that.”

Freddie heard John and Brian laughing behind them and in his brief moment of distraction he had completely let his guard down and nearly jumped out of his skin when Roger grabbed him by the front of his shirt angrily. 

Freddie latched onto his wrists to keep from falling backward as Roger got right in his face. 

“You’re right. You did let me down. You walked away from everything we were building, from me, from  _ us.  _ And you never bothered…” Roger’s voice broke at the same time his grip did, pushing Freddie back from him. “This doesn't change anything.  _ This  _ doesn’t matter.” He brushed his fingers lightly against his sternum before continuing. “Being cut from your life hurt worse than any of this.”

Freddie couldn’t speak.  A calloused hand found his cheek, a thumb brushing away tears he hadn’t realized were falling.  “But I’m willing to give it a go if you are. Are we good?” Roger’s expression was tender, soft, and Freddie was undone. “Deaky, is there anything to drink, please?” Roger called over his shoulder, pulling Freddie in close. Freddie wound an arm around Roger, desperately tight, as the pair made their way back to the house.

John nodded, giving Roger an exaggerated, mocking bow. “You want one too, Fred?”

“No!” Roger yelled, laughing louder than Freddie had ever heard him. He pinched Freddie’s side.

“Yes, thank you darling.” Freddie shouted to the bass player, snaking his hand up to cover Roger’s mouth.

“No, no. He can get his own. Just for me, please.” Roger twisted his face out of Freddie’s reach, and winked good naturedly as his hand found Freddie’s.

They found Brian and John in the kitchen, adding ice to glasses of liquor. Roger pulled Freddie to the counter, only letting go of his hand when his breathing suddenly hitched. The drummer sank onto the barstool heavily, eyes closed. He seemed to be holding his breath, seemed to be in  _ pain _ . Freddie couldn’t look away, suddenly worried he’d hurt his friend during their little moment outside.

“How long has it been since you’ve had a real wrestle like that?” Brian’s voice floated through Freddie’s concern, tone light. Completely unconcerned.

“Three or four years, at least.” He whispered, watching as John suddenly appeared with a glass of water and a small orange bottle. He placed them in front of Roger.

“You’ve lost your edge, mate.” The drummer broke in, voice thin and breathless. He nodded to John as he opened the pill container. “You’re an angel.”

Freddie snagged the bottle from Roger’s hands, reading the sticker on it. “What the hell are you taking these for?”

“I just think they’re so delicious.”

The singer shoved his friend, irritated that Roger was trying to make him laugh when he was so determined to be worried. “Be serious.”

“They’re for my ticker.” Roger said, distractedly as he made grabbing motions towards the alcohol across from him. Brian passed him a drink.

“And what’s wrong with your ticker?”

Roger grimaced, rubbing is chest absently. “Nothing. These are just for pain.”

_ He’s lying _ .

“Freddie, tell us all about the firing of Paul Prenter.” John broke in as a drink was placed in his hand. 

“Deaky, I can’t spare one more minute of my life on that bastard.” He signed dramatically, taking a sip to keep his voice from breaking, all while keeping an eye on Roger.

“Come on, then. Give us the details.” John whined from his spot across the counter.

Roger clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed, and Freddie could only hope that it wasn’t too obvious how much he leaned into the touch. His hand was big and warm, a solid presence that gave Freddie a flutter in his stomach.

"All right. I'll tell you everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO SORRY for the delay! I've been working on a new story, and It's taking up a bit of my time.   
> I'm so thankful for you all! Please enjoy this wonderful reunion :)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s that, Fred?”  
> “Nothing” He could feel Roger’s eyes on him, studying the pale complexion, how his cheekbones stuck out a little more prominently, how he was wasting away in front of them all. “Bit of a nosebleed.” He pulled Roger on top of him, straight across his middle. “I’ll be alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this can start to make up for the LONG wait between updates. I've been struggling with major writer's block.
> 
> Can you all forgive me for being MIA? I'm sorry it's not much.

The house was quiet as Freddie lounged, nursing a headache and ignoring the TV as it played something mindless. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He’d been back near a month now, but still felt zapped of all energy, which in his mind was justification to never move off this bed again. His condition -  _ not an overtired voice, not too many late nights, not the drugs, but something entirely worse _ \- had other plans, however, making itself known with a cough that was wracking and sudden, propelling his body up to lean over his knees to breathe through it.

His fingers curled around a handkerchief, pressing it to his mouth and tried to stop heaving. His eyes watered and his throat felt tight. The stain on the cloth was a fresh shade of red. The sick feeling in the back of his throat felt worse than nausea. He rubbed the cloth against his face until it felt raw from all the abuse. 

_ He was alone and he was going to die. _

For a brief second, he felt nearly overcome by despair, the weight of yet another unimaginable loss almost too much. But when pounding suddenly came from his front door, Freddie shoved the feeling down viciously. His head fell against the pillows as he groaned in frustration. He didn’t move to get the door. Freddie sunk deeper into the bed, pulling a soft blanket to his chin.  _ Maybe they’ll go away.  _ He felt like shit more than usual tonight, and didn’t have the energy to entertain anything. He lazily turned the sound higher on the TV, mind wandering pleasantly to blonde waves and blue eyes and soft lips and -

_ THUD. _

_ THUD. _

Freddie’s knees nearly cracked his jaw as he startled, scrambling to get out of the blanket so he was standing up right. His heart pounded. He froze in place, listening. There it was again, and when he realized it was coming from the front door his frustration exploded. Whichever bastard it was banging on his door - the clock on the wall claimed it was  _ midnight _ \- was in for it. Freddie tied the front of his colorful robe a bit tighter and stalked down the hall, hands shaking with adrenaline as he yanked open the front door.

“What the hell—“

Roger was suddenly in his space. His eyes were bloodshot, hair wild like he’d run his hands through it over and over. “You’re back?”

Freddie stared at his friend for a moment, blinking in confusion. He leaned to the side to let the blonde in and closed the door behind him. Roger paced into his front hallway wordlessly. Freddie followed him, lip held between his teeth. “Do you have  _ any _ idea what time it is?” He felt his mouth tug into a smile against his will. 

Roger still didn’t speak, instead wandering into Freddie’s living room and the couch. His hands reached out to brush against it before he suddenly whirled around to face Freddie. The singer’s hand reached Roger's messy blonde hair and tucked it behind his ear when Roger caught his wrist, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Freddie stared back at him. He wasn’t used to him being so quiet. He didn’t like it. “What’s going on?” He moved his hand across Roger’s face, following the scar up through his hair gently. 

“Is this real?” Roger’s whisper was almost too quiet to hear. 

“Yes.” Freddie said, watching the drummer warily as he caught on to what was happening.

A strange look crossed Roger’s face, scrubbing his eyes as if they were causing him pain. “You’re really back?”

Freddie leaned forward, stroking the blonde hair again as he spoke. “I’m back, darling.” He didn’t know what to make of Roger’s question, and his throat was swelling with emotion. Freddie hadn’t seen the truly devastating consequences of Roger’s mental health yet - not to this extent. He often joked about his memory issues, about John and Brian never leaving him alone for long, about how he found himself wandering into a room with no recollection of why. 

“Do you—?” Freddie paused, and tried again. “Rog, are you alright?”

After a tense moment and a thousand emotions flickering across Roger’s face, the drummer snorted a laugh. He dragged a hand through his hair. “ _ Shit _ .” He grimaced, eyeing Freddie before scrubbing at his eyes again. 

“What?” Freddie asked, unable to hide his own smile.

Roger ignored him, instead leaning against the wall. His hands were shaking.

“What?” Freddie repeated louder. The drummer was staring at a point on the floor, deep in thought. Freddie went to stand beside him, placing his hand on the back of his shirt. “Roger?”

He froze, lifted his head. “What, Fred?”

“What do you mean what? Are you even listening to me?” He asked. “I’ve called your name twice.”

Roger paled. He swallowed. “And?”

Freddie stared at him for a moment, Roger avoided his eyes. “You remember I’ve been back for a month, don’t you?”

Roger pulled away from him, face going red. He moved over to the couch and sat down. 

Freddie took a step toward him, sliding onto the couch next to him. He tentatively reached out a hand to grasp Roger’s, enjoying the roughness of them. The drummer was coiled tight next to him, jaw tight. "It doesn't matter."

“What doesn’t?” Freddie asked.

Roger didn’t move, but his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed thickly. “I don’t…” He paused, still not looking at the singer. “It doesn’t matter if you remind me. It’ll be gone soon enough.”

The frontman reached down to take Roger’s hand and pulled him close, heart breaking. He coaxed the drummer up off the couch, still held tight against his body as the pair found their way onto Freddie’s bed.

“Come with me, my love.” And Freddie was surprised how naturally their bodies fit together, Roger a little stiff but slowly relaxing as Freddie trailed his fingers up and down his arm. He watched as a blush crept up from beneath Roger’s collar, traveling up to the tips of his ears.

“Sorry.” 

“For what?” Freddie shifted to try and catch his eye. Roger looked down at his hands, instead of meeting his look. As if by making eye contact they’d both acknowledge that Roger wasn’t himself tonight. “You belong here with me whether you remember it or not.” Freddie said lightly, but he suspected that all along. Roger’s eyes had that faraway look in them when he was in the middle of a memory lapse, and this time was no different. But he did seem a bit more manic than Freddie was comfortable with. They laid in companionable silence for a moment, Freddie praying his cough wouldn’t start back up and disturb the peace. Roger dozed next to him, head falling to rest on his shoulder, and Freddie would have believed he was asleep until his quiet confession. 

“I had to see.” 

“See what?” 

“That you were really back.”

Freddie felt his heart break. The verbal proof that Roger was struggling despite the two of them seeing each other nearly every day weighed heavy. This moment was only a small taste of what Roger had been dealing with in his absence. He didn’t know what triggered it, or even how to fix it, but he remembered Brian interacting with Roger in a similar instance. 

_ He catches on eventually, but playing along usually keeps the anger at bay. _

He could feel Roger’s body heat radiating on his whole left side. His body was alarmingly aware he was here with him, it makes him shiver without being cold. Freddie didn’t want to  _ lie _ to Roger, but he didn’t know what to say. When he didn’t respond, Roger pushed back slightly to get a good look at him. Freddie noticed his eyes were much clearer than before, a tell that Roger was coming back to himself. His eyes went to the wadded up, blood-stained cloth and Freddie felt a pang of regret he hadn’t a chance to dispose of it. “What’s that, Fred?”

“Nothing” He could feel Roger’s eyes on him, studying the pale complexion, how his cheekbones stuck out a little more prominently, how he was wasting away in front of them all. “Bit of a nosebleed.” He pulled Roger on top of him, straight across his middle. “I’ll be alright.” The blonde tried to shift to look at him, a small sigh escaped when he relaxed, then settled into Freddie’s torso. 

Minutes -  _ or hours?  _ \- passed in silence, Roger’s breathing evening out. But Freddie couldn’t sleep. HIs mind was in torment, riding the high of his love for the man next to him while suffocating under the reality of his situation. He couldn’t hold it back.

“I love you.”

Freddie’s barely-there whispered confession sounded so suffocatingly alone in the inky blackness as he shifted on the bed, eyes straining even though it’s too distant for him to make out anything farther away than about two feet. Roger was backlit by the faint shine of the streetlamps outside the bedroom window, and Freddie could just about make out his silhouette lying in bed. The singer hesitated for a moment,  too wrapped up in his mind, when the drummer’s hands were on his shirt, pulling him in close to settle next to his sleep-warm body. 

Freddie felt his heart hammering so loudly it filled the room. His hands reached out on their own up Roger’s shirt, greedily trailing down the flat planes of his abdomen only to freeze just above the waistband when his mind suddenly caught up to the heat in his body. Roger tensed under his touch, waking up a bit more. They laid in silence, but Freddie’s mind was on fire. It was always so easy to be affectionate with Roger - they had years of innocent  _ closeness _ under their belts, all under the umbrella of being lifelong friends. Being out didn’t change anything between them, and Freddie clung to that. Roger reached between them to grab Freddie’s hands mid-caress to pull them up soundlessly to the side of his face. The drummer then brought a hand to  curl around his forearm; a welcome warmth and an invitation if he’s ever heard one. He moved closer into his space.

“Is this real?” 

Roger’s sleepy whisper brought Freddie back to himself. He moved his hand across Roger’s face, following the scar up through his hair gently. “It’s real.”

The blonde snapped to awareness, pushing back slightly as if to get a better look. “You’re really here?”

Freddie leaned forward, stroking the blonde hair again as he spoke. “I’m here, darling.” He didn’t know what to make of Roger’s question, and his throat was swelling with emotion. “I’m sorry it took me so long to make it back.”

Roger settled back onto the mattress, his hand going back to trailing up and down Freddie’s arm, when he suddenly yanked him forward and their lips slotted together like two magnets clicking into place. His tongue parted Freddie’s lips. His arms looped around his waist, pulling him closer and it’s dizzying how Freddie feels all of a sudden. It’s been a long time since he kissed anyone where his heart pounded so hard. Freddie’s hand shifted underneath him to cradle the back of his head, his fingers curled deep into Roger’s blond curls. 

“I needed this.” Is all he can force out, his heart hammering so loudly it filled the room.

“I know.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alright, children. Let’s give it one more run though.” Brian stood from the amp, smirking to diffuse the situation. Without waiting for a response, he ripped the opening chord of Hammer To Fall.
> 
> Only for rehearsal to come to a screaming halt when Freddie’s voice cracked. He held his throat, a look of panic flickering across his face. John froze, remembering the same look on Fred out in the hallway when he’d asked if he was okay. His heart lurched.

_ Freddie climbed the long, curving stairwell taking the stairs two at a time ignoring the burning in his lungs. Anger boiled in his belly at his newest prescription rattling in the paper bag in his hand. He couldn’t deal with it now - the ache to confess his diagnosis. To tell anyone. To get it out of the way so he could live his life, however small the amount was left.  _

You have AIDS. There’s no cure.

_ Just knowing Roger was there in the bedroom considerably relaxed the tension in his shoulders. But the ache never went away.  _

_ He couldn’t deal with it now.  _

_ Freddie chucked the pills in the bathroom angrily before entering his -  _ their  _ \- bedroom. The television glowed but the sound had been turned down too low to hear. Roger was propped on two pillows wearing only a pair of sweatpants, one arm resting behind his head. His features relaxed with his eyes closed as if taking a nap. The singer softened into something gentle as he draped a hand over Roger's, quietly lying next to him on the bed. His hand found itself trailing the center of the drummer’s abdomen, exploring the waist of his pants.  _

_ "I was thinking about the first time we met." Roger murmured without opening his eyes. A faint smile ghosted over his lips. _

_ "When you made fun of my teeth?" Freddie asked, only mildly surprised. He still remembered the adrenaline from that night, how he laid himself bare before the band begging for a chance to prove himself even though he felt absolutely destroyed by Roger’s comment. _

_ His smile grew a bit. “Singing our song like you wrote the damn thing..."  _

_ "You remember that?" _

_ "I had never seen anything like you until that night." Roger opened his eyes as he turned to face the singer, bringing Freddie’s palm to his lips. “Where have you been?” His question was light, but his eyes were tight. Freddie had to look away.  _

_ “I’ve been out.”  _

_ He dragged a thumb lightly over the curve of Roger’s lip before pulling back. The singer moved from the bed, busied his hands by smoothing down the sheets, folding a blanket, picking clothes off the floor. Roger’s eyes were burning into his back as he waited for Freddie to explain, but he ignored him. Freddie made his way to the bathroom, avoiding his reflection as he grabbed the prescription bag from where it landed on the vanity. The cough he’d been holding back suddenly burst from his chest. He dropped the pills back on the vanity and gripped the sink to support himself. Blood, like sprinkles on some sorry cake, stood out against the porcelain. Shaking hands turned on the faucet and he was mesmerized by the way the red swirled down the sink, taking his secret with it.  _

_ “That doesn’t sound good.”  _

_ If his heart wasn’t already in his throat, Roger’s quiet observation behind him definitely put it there. In one last attempt to avoid his friend, Freddie dipped his hands in the cool stream and splashed his face, erasing any bits of evidence.  _

_ “Don’t look at me like that, darling. It’s just a cough.” He raised an eyebrow around a towel, drying his face. He gestured to the medicine vaguely. “These should sort it by Live Aid.” Roger leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed. His right hand was trembling.  _

_ “Something's going on with you." He moved into his space and ran a hand the length of Freddie’s face - taking in the hollowed out cheeks, the dark bruising under his eyes that just wouldn’t go away.  _

You have AIDS. There’s no cure.

_ Freddie’s wary eyes studied the blonde. “What are you talking about?" He curled a hand around Roger’s, trying to put distance between them. _

_ "Fred…" _

_ “I'm fine." Freddie breathed an even sigh toward the floor. Roger slipped his arms around Freddie’s waist from behind. Lingering kisses traced a path across his shoulder to his neck. Feeling Roger so thoroughly wrapped around him calmed some of the burning ache that never seemed to subside, and he relaxed into silence. _

_ “Promise?” _

_ Freddie was glad Roger was behind him as he took in a shaky breath. He couldn’t promise.  _

Distract him.

_ “I promise...that I have a surprise for you.” _

_ “Mmm?” Roger hummed between his shoulder blades.  _

_ Instead of answering, Freddie patted the blonde on the hand. “I picked us up a little something.” He felt the drummer shift behind him in interest. He took that as his queue to lead the way.  _

_ “Again, Fred?” The tempting smell of coffee and pastries had finally made its way to them at the end of the hall. Roger, ever driven by his stomach, nearly dragged Freddie down the stairs to get his hands on the sugary mess. The little cafe near the hospital that Roger refused to go back to had the best coffee, and the tension in Freddie’s gut loosened at the sigh of contentment from Roger after his first sip. The scar over his brow lifted and he let out a sudden chuckle. “My heart is already trying to kill me. Are you trying to make me fat too?”  _

_ Freddie took a bite of donut and then pinched Roger’s side. “I would never.” He smirked.  _

_ “Stop.” Roger rolled his eyes.  _

_ “Really, Roger, I worry enough that you  _ still _ forget to eat. I’ll take any weight gain as a victory.” The blonde reached over and snagged the treat from Freddie’s hand mid bite and stuffed it in his mouth, smug. The singer couldn’t hold back the laugh, all thoughts of his illness melting away.  _

* * *

“Fred?”

John placed hand on his shoulder, drawing him back into the present. He blinked his tired eyes and turned his head to look at his friend. Freddie had a look of panic on his face until he saw who had touched him. His smile was a little dopey, his eyes a little bloodshot.

“You good?”

Freddie laughed humorlessly and nodded, but John wasn’t convinced. Why was he hiding in the hallway? 

“You look even worse than I do.”

“Not pretty enough for you anymore?” He teased, grinning his most dazzling grin clearly meant to distract, but John only chuckled. 

“You know I’m not saying that—You look tired, mate. That’s all I’m saying.”

“That’s because I am, dear.” Freddie cupped his cheek with a hand, expression unreadable. He didn’t speak further as the pair made their way back into the chapel. 

John watched his friend as he pressed a chaste kiss to Roger’s temple. Something had changed in the last week or so. It was evident in the way the drummer’s lips pulled upward into a subtle smile of contentment when Freddie was near. In the way the singer seemed to subconsciously be facing Roger at all times. It felt different. 

There was an ease that hadn’t been felt in years, long before ‘the Freddie Incident” -  _ that’s what John called it all in his mind. _ Take away the handful of grey hairs that Roger gave him and John could almost believe he was back in time. Brian perched on the amp, strumming the Special, eyes closed in concentration as he tuned it. Roger seated behind the kit, spinning the drum stick in his left hand. Freddie talking in between hitting chords on the piano - the beginning keys of  _ Bohemian Rhapsody. _

“Just the intro, darlings. Then we’ll take them on a ride.”

“ _ I’m In Love With My Car _ as the opener, right?” Roger sent a wink to the singer.

Brian snorted across the room. Freddie just heaved a sigh, leaning towards Brian conspiratorially. “I’d rather hoped he’d forgotten about that blasted song in the accident.” 

Roger’s mouth dropped open. He threw the drumstick at Freddie who was laughing loudly. It bounced harmlessly off his back. 

“Shit!” Roger laughed, eyes wide in shock. “You actually  _ are _ trying to kill me.” 

“Alright, children. Let’s give it one more run though.” Brian stood from the amp, smirking to diffuse the situation. Without waiting for a response, he ripped the opening chord of  _ Hammer To Fall _ .  Only for rehearsal to come to a screaming halt when Freddie’s voice cracked. He held his throat, a look of panic flickering across his face. John froze, remembering the same look on Fred out in the hallway when he’d asked if he was okay. His heart lurched.

“Let’s call it. Yeah?” He spoke before Freddie had to. 

The singer had his eyes closed, resignation and humiliation warring over his features. “Sorry. I sound like shit. You all are lovely, you sound good. My throat feels like a vulture’s crotch.” He seemed frozen in place as the rest of them started packing up.

“We still got a week.” Roger’s voice was quiet. The drummer was frozen as well, watching Freddie warily.

“Yeah, we’re in a good place, Fred. You just need a bit of rest, that’s all.” Brian chimed in from where he was pulling his shoes back on. John clapped Roger on the shoulder, forcing the blonde to unfreeze. The tension was mounting in the room the longer Freddie didn’t speak. 

“I’ve got it.”

“Got what?” 

“AIDS. I wanted you to hear it from me.”

John felt Roger’s hand on the back of his shirt, a death grip. He could feel his hand shaking. 

“Fred, I’m so sorry.” Brian was the only one to break the silence. His shoulders were lowered in defeat, his face echoing the same expression that he’d sported the last year -  _ Roger’s been in an accident and he might not make it. I’ve signed a deal with CBS records -  _ and now _ : I’ve got it. _

“Brian, stop. Don’t. For right now, it’s between us. Alright? Just us. So please, if any of you fuss about it or frown about it or, worst of all, if you bore me with your sympathy that’s just seconds wasted. Seconds that could be used making music, which is all I want to do with the time I have left.”

John looked up, forcing the tears back. He was being crushed, consumed in the never-ending tragedy that his life had become. They’d flown too high, and here was the fall.

“I don’t have time to be their victim, their AIDS poster boy, their cautionary tale. No, I decide who I am. I’m going to be what I was born to be. A performer who gives the people what they want. Touch of the heavens. Freddie fucking Mercury.”

The statement echoed throughout the chapel, like the notes of their music. Freddie stepped forward and pulled them close. That’s when Roger’s hand dropped from John’s back. He glanced at the drummer. Roger’s eyes were bright with tears, but his face was dead. He held one hand to his middle while he backed away, slowly shaking his head. Freddie stepped through them, reaching one hand out to the drummer.  “No.” His voice was sharp and stopped them all in their tracks, except for Freddie who bravely continued towards him.

“Roger.” His voice cracked for the second time that day.

Roger’s face twisted into something terrible. He held a hand out in warning as he made his way out. A door slamming was the only sound a second later, leading Freddie down the hall and towards the bathroom.  Freddie got the door and tried the handle, locked.

“Roger?” Freddie waited. There was no sound. He tapped his knuckles on the door. “Please.” He tried the locked door again. “You’re scaring me, alright? C’mon,” Freddie leaned his head against the door. “Just say something, please.”

“No.” Roger rasped. Freddie could hear his shuddered breath as if he were sitting just on the other side of the door. 

“Can I please come in?” Freddie asked. He listened to his strained breath like it’s hard for him to breathe in fully. A long moment passed, Brian and John waiting behind him. A look passed between them and Brian turned down the hall. Freddie felt a hand on his back as the pair left to give him privacy. He nodded at them gratefully, relieved he didn’t have to explain. Relieved they already seemed to  _ know _ .

The lock clicked, and Freddie peeked in hesitantly.

Roger was bent over the sink and gripping the porcelain with all his strength. He was taking big gasping breaths, like he was suffocating. And in the second it took for Freddie to command his stunned body move forward, Roger caught eyes with him in the mirror. Freddie placed a gentle hand on Roger’s back as the drummer took a shuddering breath and then sunk to the floor with a groan. Freddie apprehensively looked over his friend. That usual tan complexion was pale and drawn.

Freddie forced his brain to focus, nervously watching him. “Talk to me.”

Roger didn’t respond.

Crouching down, Freddie worriedly placed a hand on Roger’s forehead. The drummer jerked away from his touch, giving him a look of irritation. “Don’t.” He warned. 

“Is it your heart?”

“Does it matter?” Roger whirled on him, gripping his chest again. 

Freddie’s face fell. “You know it does.”

“How long have you known?”

Freddie blinked, the words catching in his throat. 

“How long have you  _ known _ , Freddie?”

Freddie stared at the blonde, eyes welling up as he tried to find the words to say. He couldn’t hold it back anymore. “I suspected it in Munich. It wasn’t confirmed until I was here.”

He couldn’t bear to look at Roger’s expression. The blonde’s face was completely blank. Freddie’s eyes slid closed, waiting for the explosion. And he jerked back in surprise when Roger’s hand found his cheek.

“I just got you back.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost over :( Thank you to all of you who have stuck with this story since the beginning! It's been a helluva ride.


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